POETRY

ICARUS RETURNS TO THE SUN

warm hands pressed against the ceiling 

our sky, propped up with lustre assumptions

eight months weigh on six days 

the cracks appear in the concrete 

i press in my fingernails, make a moon on your palm

you make a pool on your pillow, and i make a sound

lost somewhere between 

a songbird and a traitor on the gallows 

i can't get the words out so you fill the spaces for me

i suggest the inevitable, you rewrite the beginning

skip over the middle – an empty kingfisher  dive all

speed and no grace 

angels are meant to scare mortals to

death i just thought you were beautiful 

perhaps a death in its own right, 

leaden wax wings and scorching light

Casper is a writer from Nottingham UK, and a student. You can also find his words in Thread/Fate (postghostpress). If you can't find him, he's probably crocheting or simply vibin'.