9:4: “No Child of Daedalus”, by WC Roberts

9:4: “No Child of Daedalus”, by WC Roberts
  “shoot it down in a tangle of broken planks
  and brackets, twisted with string and sailcloth

knock it from the air
this machination of witches and devilry

no child of Daedalus rigged this up
and no Daedalus, either; yet through the air
it carries a man…” 

                                 and from the balcony
Leonardo watches arms spread childlike imagining
he was the flying machine

a stallion rearing bronze about to leap from the pedestal
with a smile like that of his Lisa, so pleased he was

the terrified massing below conspicuously absent
from his sketches, he turns away

returning to the workshop to capture the flight
in pigment and egg white on a panel

porcupine-bristling with pikes and bolts for brushes
their rendering of it all more forceful than his

WC Roberts lives in a mobile home up on Bixby Hill, on land that was once the county dump. The only window looks out on a ragged scarecrow standing in a field of straw and dressed in his own discarded clothes. WC dreams of the desert, of finally getting his first television set, and of ravens. Above all, he writes.

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