Unless I look you dead in the eye
all my words are useless,
too used to the shifting red and blue
as passions heat and cool,
too used to the pretty birds in a row
to realize there’s a target
on every heads or tails, the pressing
sentiment or hard knocks taught
obsolescence of all my tricks and treaties.
Unless you tell me straight to my face
all the words are mysteries,
too used to the preconditions and qualifiers
as the rhetoric goes from soft to stick
too used to the stirred crown and
the raptor’s shadow telling
your truth, your strong wings
the tearing of the very air
the treatise on the ministry of the swift.
Unless I am shown I won’t know
all my hopes are dashed,
too used to the ebb and flow of
powers vast and undisturbed,
too used to the blood inked
blanks and the startling marginalia
to realize the story’s not for me,
the attendant of rot and ruin,
the conversation over long ago.
