'Checkmate.'
I’m sick of not knowing. A life bereft of surprises, In that I revel with tremor. The calendar shudders at any touch. November is all but over. For his own life he fears. Confident the day stauches a rivulet of possibilities, I want to shove the knife And carve out of me a fountain of roses. To see the landscape, whatever is running under this hide. I want sobering cuts. They give me a tease. I want peeled truth. They dismiss with a tickle. Never will I thrill at anything in a baby-proofed cell. A baby’s life is locked in itself. A baby’s pain gives motive for wonder As if pain is a novelty. The unwrapping grows wearisome. Doubts begin to envelop me That the wrap is the gift. If I wreathe a garland about my neck, That, at last, might stir a ripple in me.