Guardian Angel with a Blues Harp

—not a lute. Storms
have passed. Acoustic mass
wraps black
and tangles up inside 

the brick wall. Some of it will seep
through. More will remain the ivy
of darkness outside 

my window. Alone, I risk 

the walk outside at night
toward a museum, fuzzed-out
guitar and drums loop
around a gallery 

on an upper floor. Alone, I imagine 

I will peer over
a cliff, will listen
for human voices amidst the ocean 

roar in Big Sur,
will hope to see an otter,
will hope to hear some small sign
that you’re out there watching 

over me without knowing
that’s what you do. I keep
my distance—solitude
is my drug 

of choice. There’s nothing left to fear.