Partial secrets are like half-lived lives;
When you gaze into that other world
Gleaming on the leaves
It’s like you’re dumped off at a bus depot
In a town you’ve never been
Where the diner sounds and gas pump shapes
Seem cloyingly familiar
Like those wind chimes out of nowhere –
There’s a distance, something to sense,
A separation dangling like a puppet
With a face you want to rescue
Filled with all the confusion
Half-truth subjects you to.
Better that the secrets be unknown;
The palm fronds counting out
Impossible figures in the wind,
The feeling that you know not merely sense
Somehow, something kept from you,
You prisoner of the disclosed,
Closing in, as all corrupt things do,
While the light escapes to other yards
For others’ fleeting play.
