Three Questions
How
can
a man
disavow
the lies he once told
when truth on the death bed blows cold
and the wrinkles adorning the face are his own now?
Who
slows
for those
leaves elms strew
over sidewalks when
wind is up to no good again
and the arrow of winter is about to cut through?
Why
does
because
seem a sigh
when why is a moan
we utter expecting a stone,
not a nod to a nimbus dissolving in the sky?
