ICARIUS/Lavon B. Carroll I squat over this pile of ashes Into which my tears fall silently Leaving little ugly pocks The dry dust in my mouth stings And if you ask me why I sift the ashes endlessly 1 tell you, This was once my lovely airy wings. There is a refuse heap of dreams Which breathed upon Stir, rise and shape Themselves into shabby ghosts These are my companions frequently Who seek in a deceitful world Something promised Something unfulfilled Who speak from ragged mouths The brilliant litany, The sermon and the commencement speech. I stand outside your door With fists full of wilted flowers Like a child who can not reach the knob You do not hear the knocking far within. So many lovely things have died In the oaken silence between us Forgive me for my heart Is an impulsive child untaught Eager to bring you these useless treasures Gathered on the hills the first tousled headed dandelion A queer shaped stone Or an abandoned shell A bursted milkweed pod with its nascent silvery fish inside Or a softly colored feather that fell From wild free wings. Love it has ever seemed to me Is this foolish trade In small sweet common things. 46 'IF OR WHEN I DO START GOING TO AN ANALYST, I HOPE TO GOD HE HAS THE FORESIGHT TO LET A DERMATOLOGIST SIT IN ON THE CONSULTATION. A HAND SPECIALIST. I HAVE SCARS ON MY HANDS FROM TOUCHING CERTAIN PEOPLE." J. D. Salinger 47