No matter the number by which you decide
the dividend of times I lied
you’d still have a quotient I wouldn’t know how
Good sides are derivative and I know mine
suggests communication equals a judicious need
the language of my circumscription—that, in other words, needing
my speech, leaving only immodest thought to bare.
Once upon an otherwise ordinary
evening, I found I didn’t have
out and retrieve the telltale slant that, with (despite)
everything, alive is so simply good a thing
no matter the manner of calculations
behind what I may feel or find
or do, blithely adding myself up
Originally published on Art & Insolence.