He fell.

Tripped over his leap, fell

over his hopes, into his dreams,

to sleep, within the fairy tale, to

drown in spinning hopes, three

minutes of breathless fortune.

He unburdened  his songs,

counted his wrongs

to her like a little bird bringing

morsels to the weak and set

forth.

He fell  

within grasp, within reach

of the fleece, a myth not quite

written

a love too hard too young not

to burn in the reflected gold of her

eyes.

The fleece was there, a kiss

away fallen to her shoulders

tumbled like wool but he was

no mythic hero, he was just a

man. And he fell.

He fell

to all that he had bowed to

all that he had rowed

as he saw that all he had

was her.