May Let Ghosts Fly

Extend your hands and hold my heart, feel it fluttering
like a bug? A woman can hide her love for a hundred years,
but her ire not for one day, the proverb goes;
but I can not keep secrets of any kind, without the flit
of nervous wings drumming the air around.
So does that make me an honest withholder? All
from here to Hong Kong know I am lying, or at least
know I have something I can’t tell; the canoe I’m paddling
upstream is ever on the verge of tipping, and waters
will carry my confidences and lockboxes down.
River banks and shores frequent the world; eventually
all things get washed up and moored, for cement
is human, but nature has the tides and waves, a thousand
years strong a lie can be, but truth is eternal, and will
most certainly grind us all into our smallest parts
and line the seas with our exposed pieces. I may let
ghosts fly, but I’ve no skeletons to speak of. Cups
runneth over, but I pour my mine out onto the floors, eased.

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