Your concentric circles wake me at four
where I fly missing feathers into your dreams.
I saw the road in the sky and heard love cats claw doors
showing me what’s a narrow escape
beyond a clew
dying for them to reach me
lying on a northern coast: igniting mistrals blew.
It seems Daedalus was the son; an artist as a young man.
Exposing the flaws of his machine,
I’m left at super drift
disrupting the senses through death
getting into whatever minds, I see
an occasional night stunt of love
when Icarus plays at being Phoenix.