Knowing is Not Being
Anita Simpson
moments marked in faucet drips
box fan swishes
sultry lemon chills
melon balls and sandy feet
are still recalled in catīs-eye gleam
from demon streets
that bubble with desire
and stretch through syrupy full moon glaze
(know that truth is hiding)
stars beat down on summerīs green
and later, autumn fogs
that roll in leaf-strewn alleyways
crouching over prowling felines
full of fish, a mouse or two
and quiet contemplation
(I know the truth is hiding)
naked winter holds
the barest pleasures
frosted glass and silver breath
bony trees and pale moon meadows
nowhere to hide
nowhere to run
(where is truth in winter?)
knowing is not being
so find me, truth
I need to be you
