darling, you
never remember
the way your palms
burn in Spain; every last
vein in you shrivels to dust in
front of these granite cathedrals,
saints and spires notwithstanding.
there can never be forgiveness,
not when the unaccusing sun
points fingers at one
son of Icarus, the
lacquered son,
son of sin.

though it
is not us who
stand trial, your
burning face lends
more testimony than
any imprints of feathers or
sprinkling of gold dust from those
subterranean fountains carrying youth
and godhood and a year's rainfall.
the second your knees give out,
we know it is over, and we
(who trusted tragedy)
bathe in sunsets
no more.

cannot hide
sunburns or dusty
fingerprints under its
awful display of milky silks
and cloudy brocades, and even
the Seine's water will not soothe us.
they stand you up in a wooden frame,
but you still resent the irony of
walking on legs that burn too
easily, crumbling from
beneath you to
mix with ash
and glory.