PORTRAIT OF DAEDALUS FALLING

How many words could fill
my mouth like
pebbles from a beach
before I could say:
"I can see her. The wife
of Daedalus waxes in the
slow morning."
And how can I know that
I understand when you
breathe in my ear and
the ground spirals away
below us?

Look: the ants go down
to their catacombs,
bright moths hung over
their shoulders.
Do you hear them say,
as I do,
"I’m sorry, this is
as deep as I can take you."

We hang together like a ,
whisper in the throat of
Brueghel’s sky.