Half-truths present themselves complete
as memories write fainter.
Keep this in mind: that’s when we meet
the mind whose grasp is greater,
retouching like a painter
the smudges all the world can see,
the freedom in our data,
our mind too data-free.
Well-being gleams along its scale.
We barter for our ration,
too late, too lax, and set to fail,
too late to learn our lesson.
In mothballs hangs our passion.
Without the lure of longing looks
our love will keep her dress on,
warp our will back to books.
We pluck ideas off the page,
groom them with wheedling voices.
Our mental gardens flower beige
or flower with loose petals.
Wild stars infect our choices.
Lost in the red mist of our crimes,
wildly we thrash at nettles,
wildly invoking rhymes.
