In this realm of Maybe, the barbed current

of your wise, unspeakable feelings tied

double knots which later sometimes weren’t; 

a list of shames constructed with pre-war

sentiment, but you could hear a pin drop

if you pressed pretenses against the door 

to self esteem. Keep digging or propose

a new hole; start the day or a new dream

dishonest in the honesty you chose. 

Salt and smoke; dogged lines on the newly

middle aged evoke red fog. What succeeds

the final last straw? More straws, skating

free as fat teardrops, generating

the self-continuance of awful deeds?