A Journeyman Piece

Upon a deck that overlooked the sea
he said You cannot claim to be a poet
until you have written at least one sonnet
about Icarus—I’ll help—I can be
your Mentor. They plucked words out of the trees
and fixed them on the bones with a delicate
syntax made from molten wax. I bet
it even flies, he said and carelessly
cast it over the bay and into the sun
along with a bright eagle of his own.
The poor thing flew the very best it could
with wings not meant for that high altitude.
Watching it sink he said, with no trace of guile:
Not bad for novice verse—almost a mile.

First appeared in the New Formalist.