Confession

I feel as though I calculate
And never make a single calculation
I measure out the permanence that wasn’t really permanent
In values organized in permutations

I set a set of sliding scales
Against the metaphors of old deception
I find in the dividing there are only larger dividends
To quantify the meaning of exception

I feel like I’m conspiring
But never wear the mask of conspiration
I organize the images and elements and reasoning
Until I cannot see a complication

I put another piece in place
Without a thought and, so, without concession
I walk along a dotted line of severed veins and arteries
And cannot hear the blood over the sound that I omit from each confession

Reserve

Perhaps I hadn’t rushed enough
To see her ‘neath the blush of us
Where life delivered, roughly thus,
The blurring light of metaphors
Of candles so abruptly snuffed

So with a turn of tracer views
Did night, when slipping, grace her views
Where mine was naught but waste and bruise
To see the path we’ve settled for
With visage false and face bemused

For though I thought I sped to her
To hear her laugh, I threaded sure
The end thereof and wedded pure
Lament to losses set ashore
For ships and sails that never were

Perhaps it’s as I thus deserve
For caring not when touch disturbs
When lips were loud but hushed in nerve
Against the song they met in force
The night that saw me rushing just to see, for me, her blush reserve