The periphery is the place

where dreams are most visible.

On the edges, frayed and wrinkled,

my subdivided realities

open wide and spread out

before inquisitors pressed in close

with noses against the dirty glass

of my best kept secrets.

Let’s confirm that hope

spy that joy,

pin down that lie,

open that pain.

If one can make hiccups

in time and place, perhaps

there can be rejoined

the fragile messes,

the intractable chaos,

the static imperfections

with the faux pardon of time.

Drive the head of this nail

of perceptions through

already connected wood

with the hammer of bad choices.

What’s left is just one more nail.

Still, my need for love,

unprovoked and misunderstood,

is best found in lost time.

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