keith

She sings to me of Ferlinghetti
in the Arctic of the heart
She knows every word

In the desert lonely
she is a mirage of water
perhaps to stumble into
surprised to discover its tangibility
Or
to stumble onward to dry death
never having reached that dream
The story as yet unwritten
The first verse begun
Has the protagonist met a savior
or a villain?
or neither
perhaps comic relief
In the midst of immense tragedy

Has Icarus found his wings
or the Sun?
Whichever we know the outcome
is the same.