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In the Absence of Wings
"And look, Daedalus still
hasn't invented
the wings."
Miroslav Holub

Somewhere , a gardener
translates the labyrinth
into a maze of hawthorn and yew,

and though the minotaur sleeps,
the hawthorn is sharp
as a rosebush,

the yewberries
are bright
with poison.

It is evening.
I have watched the children wander off
into their lives,

I have locked the door
of my father's grave
behind me.

Soon I will finish with books,
their chaste
and voluptuous music.

Snow
and flowers alternate,
flowers and snow.

What I was given
has been taken
back,

what was with held
I still long for.

The horizon is the thread
I must tie to my wrist
in the absence

of wings, as I come
to the vine-scrolled gatepost
of the labyrinth.

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