I’d need to have the feet Daedalus made
for his vast robot, Talos, who could run
round Crete thrice every day, or chase the sun
on Pegasus or have the boots inlaid
with wings on which the hero Perseus flew
or Rhesus’ snow-white chariot-racing team.
I’d have to fly the way I do in dream.
Winged feet. Winged horses. And my own wings too.
If you could give me those – you move so fast
that you must have them. No-one ever finds
you. You must have the speed of winds
to hide from all your friends. And then, at last,
when I catch up to you, tired to the bone
from chasing, I’d fall down, sleep like a stone.