bloom and rustle on. Still the plow turns the soil, the plough hand never asking what’s beneath it. Icarus falls and the ship sails on, gliding over his wet, blue grave, gliding away from the port stacked with crates and ropes and kegs, away from the docks of work and sweat and laughter. Tonight in this small seaside town, who will hear the boats straining and moaning at their moorings? Surely someone will ask questions about sun and time and wax?
