Gets Away with It

This exquisite solitude
is my ambrosia, soma, cool
breeze coaxing a hammock
on a crest overlooking
a breaking ocean.

Acquired over years
of painful resistance,
even more gruesome
on a man—any man—this pleasure

dome is equipped with a retractable roof,
an observatory
for observing the hems

of gods. Some of them slightly torn.

Fear Is a Four Letter Word—And So What

Someone drove a Nash
rambler into my heart.
See these burn scars. I’m knitting them 

into poems fast
as I can. Fear is
a cross-stitch I’m 

still learning how to work
into a pattern. Perfection
is for the gods.