subtext

A hawk slips between the trees,

silently like a child’s paper plane.

Here is no truth lassoed tightly

by a smug Wonder Woman.

For what is truth? The mountain

is still a mountain, despite its name.

We see it—imposible to deny—

but we insist words mean more,

tripping over them like shoelaces

as we cower in the short grass, and

listen for air as the hawk descends.

(February 6, 2025)