The truth is hard in my hand, not
as beautiful as geodes or seaglass
but more like the sharp pointed
unnamed rocks that litter beaches,
get inside your flip flops and sting you
with their pointy ends; or the small pebbles
you pick out of the soles of your shoes
that create an uneven rhythm when you walk.
 
It’s strange to find such artifacts in October
as your window opens up, blowing a cool breeze
as the truth overflows in your hand, sharp rocks
hitting the carpet with a thud with a dull thud,
cutting your palm with their edges
all the way down, getting blood on the carpet
that you stare at until it dries , lowly laughing
as Roth’s The Human Stain cover slides into your mind,
‘you’ve got your wits about you even if you have been scared half out of your life’
(no that’s christie).