In Bruegel’s painting Icarus plunges to his death without a witness
Every one in the scene is busy with something else
Heedless of the tiny splash in the corner of the painting
No one sees the mythological drama taking place.
I drive to work down Oak Street with a million things on my mind
With all I have to do before time runs out
Unaware as Bruegel’s peasant plowing his field
Until jolted by the painter’s vision, I am rescued from oblivion.