Against Myth

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

Ars Poetica: At Fifty

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