What Do We Know For Sure
We wake from our dream.
We interpret each other.
We become masks.
A truck stops at devil’s canyon
The fireman gets out,
takes off his protective netting,
accustoms himself to desire.
A girl crosses the street,
drinks courage from the volcano,
trusts in god but ties her horse,
covers her shame.
She is inept at all things except love.
We count the days.
Days turn to years.
Homeless desires tumble down streets
like an empty paper bag
picked up by the wind.
We want to forget
the last thing they will ever tell us
and “I will always love you”
is no consolation,
wind in our hair, birds circling overhead,
clouds pulling each other across the sky.
Does perfection of love
lie only in its acceptance
the lovers’ imperfection?
Standing at the fountain,
gazing up at the sky’s canopy,
the sun slinking behind shadows,
I realize we know nothing for sure;
night coming on late in the day,
coaxing the moon from its cage,
our hearts breaking.