Oh, the effort not to tell you, my words
snared in deadwood every time I write.
I speak surrounded by those who can’t hear
for multiple reasons, each with an ear on
his own inverted glass held to a wall.
I spy mine enemies across the field and
compose psalms of praise, born to die
with a river to cross in between.
I fear the others won’t share the reserves in
their basements or will revert to metaphors and
similes involving piranha or cannibal.
I should close my eyes, think of the
books on my shelves or my grandmother.
When we look is the time we must turn
away, before seeing’s our undoing.