oh, he never meant to go so fast.
it was just a little tap of the reins,
such that the rains wouldn’t come to pass soon again;
one half of the world covered in glazing ice,
the other scorched like meteor landing,
and in the middle this boy, young boy,
half-star falling and bobbing in Eridanus,
blackened, gashed from a scorching wheel.
his father watches from up on a balcony.
it wasn’t even his son who crashed it himself,
but a bolt struck to send him down.
he was just too inexperienced a driver;
the skies must never waver
as the tilt of a bird’s wing,
as the bob of a body in the water.
ever the sun traces its path
and tries to shine through the ice,
tries to nourish what will shade
the heat that blackens the earth,
tries to steam the river
and fish inside
and pull the boy out, alive,
yes, alive.