Even doubt is difficult, heated
slowly, cooked to softness, made
to sink in on itself, close around
its own emptiness, a pumpkin’s only
trick. But isn’t it somewhat obvious?
The candle wants to be a flower
lighting the porch, the flower wants to be
a small blue bird, and so on.
What you hear in your room
at night while you’re wanting to be
your own plot of soft grass
is the world working around you—
it’s quite a diligent machine!
You suspect it of telling many lies.
Yes, you are doubtful, sell
everything too cheaply, practically
give the world away, plastic cup by cup.
The chips of golden paint flaking off
that trophy are more embarrassing now.
Is it any wonder the world can’t trust you?
Can you hear it breathing heavy
when you open the desk drawer of sleep
and you startle it by singing wake up, wake up,
this is how we tell a truth? Can you hear
it breathing now, climbing the stairs,
loosening its diamond-patterned tie,
the one you hate and try to hide,
the one that makes you dizzy?