Did we fly too
close to the sun,
its devouring
eye with blinders
full on, beads
of melting wax
loosening each
quill that kept
the whole show
going? It was
among other
things a father
and son story,
let no one tell
us otherwise—
Phaeton and his
pards no less
part of the same
sad tale. One
doesn’t have to
read Ovid from
cover to cover
in order to know
how everything
will end. Or fly
by the seat
of our pants
Between two men
drinking from the same
dirty glass, a choice
that often goes
unexpressed—green
olives passed back
and forth in the mouths
of a father and son
in a corner booth
where cock and regrets
have never spoken
openly about what is
most desired, a moment
spreading its rash
longings deep enough
where no one can
touch, soothe, or work
out all the tension
balled-up into knots—
yoga and mindfulness
on a mat drenched
with sweat unable to
compensate for faces
ramming up against