It’s a fresh sheet floating in midair clean and sweet as a mother’s praise remember to be careful — she lies. The moonlight on the lake picks out white stones — trapper bones — bouncing on the waves. As long as the tide comes and goes, they’ll never lie. What a lovely bed, the pale-veined ivy — nearly the same at every institution — best to rinse off if you plan to lie. When earth keeps a secret, men hunger a star-mapping, spirit-lifting, hero-ising hunger not to be solved with gnawed remains, yet there he lies. You looked so disappointed when I told you what I saw. A kinder smarter world requires saying what you see, but sadly, since I love you, about this I’ll never lie.
Once lies are forsaken, truth telling becomes the most adventurous excavation. It's expression, an art.
Beautiful and haunting. I'm starting to dig this ghazal form of poetry