Ode to Doubt
Doubt, you are muscular as a boa, and smooth as cognac aged fifty years in the throat. You muffle hard outlines under your skirts, offer a grey handkerchief to each certainty. Behind the civility of veils— what manners! you understand how vulgar clarity can be. At your discretion, the lampshade’s tassels. Yours, the axe swung wide. You own the dog afloat on the ocean, the blurred print on the dog’s sodden collar. Hands that hold a cold canary, burning lungs that must inhale. Last child left in the parking lot. Dead horse, middle fork, gloved hands in hair.