To tell the truth
I am lying,
looking at the ceiling
above the bed.
The low rough
beam sagging,
an eye staring
hard down at me.
What knot's winking,
wholly formed in
unholy absence.
It is there but
Not there at all.
A knot is not
a whole until
the knot is not
there anymore.
Then the whole
has been reduced
from what it was
to what it is,
not a thing like
the knot it was.
There is a hole,
a lot like nothing-
a board bored through,
cast fast adrift,
ceiling flotsam
to be navigated
blinking in and out
of dreams
of what not.
DUET
The mad lady in the living room
is my love, the madman is me.
She sings songs of need
and I mime them in dutiful heed.
Each of us makes do with our lot,
which would be better if less.
Each with our constant string of amends,
Wanting, but not able, to think
About how it all will end,
not a clue at all how it began.
