knowing the lies are lies just isn’t enough
they are heavy in me:
a hook that I have swallowed.
can I walk up to him, asking,
“are you deeply disappointed in me?”
can I tell her I did not mean to make her mad?
she’d scoff, I know. She’d find it awkward and strange and
then she’d say, “I’m not angry. I wasn’t even thinking about you.”
I would say, “I know.
Damn all these lies, right?”
then she’d look away, which is
Am I alive if
I ask no big questions?
It is in the asking that I find
The Life; who to ask is
irrelevant. To ask permission is
also irrelevant. I ask it only
Fount of Big Questions.