September the Eleventh
If you, knowing what you know,
Having read what you have read,
All the tales you’ve heard
Should despite these warnings
name your son Icarus,
You cannot feign surprise
When blood of your blood
reaching wide as a swan unfurled
steps forward from the sill
And into the arms of flames.
The updraft buoys him like cinder
So that he might instead be flying
And for a moment the air is his.
So, too, Daedalus treading the shore, brushing
feathers of ash from his dusted shoulders
Still thinks of cheating disaster.