Clearing

A swirl of fog
as my brain unloads the pelf:
people exquisitely screaming
their superior pain
afraid of what they can't see,
their magnificent light.
It's like yarn, this stuff,
equipped to tie or warm,
a dark gauze that holds
the junk along the road
in a hobo's net
so it can gain a second, orange life:
the thing we talk about
in the place of the real,
the thing that burns
with the rage we can't leave with ourselves.

As it falls away, I see it's preferable
that people are only capable of telling lies
—it's cleaner that way, with nothing invested
except in fiduciary paper—no truth
to bind us to obey.