Up, up, up . . .

Acceptance is better done without grief.
Forget the heady premonitions
and the secret notebooks.
Put down the glass
and
close the windows
and
go to bed.

In sleep
there is fog behind the eyes,
strange allusions to the very things
best disremembered.

Open the hand
and watch wings explode:
up, up, up they go before
melting and falling like Icarus.