Say One Thing

I must, to tell my fellow men.  But I know better.  All we need is someone who is seeing the same things, convinced of the same version.  Who trips at similar twists.  It’s a million different vestibules, each word for this.  It’s the ones who say nothing who have got nowhere to hide.  

There are the things we do, all for the thing we are.  But it’s repetition that latches on with pit-bull grip, shakes us out from sleep where we invisibly picture the reciprocal question who dreams just there beside us.  Our fingers sometimes pinch in the cold composite chain-link.  

But we are kids swinging tandem, leaning backwards, after all.  So over, slides our closely skimming playground, upside is down.  Under, glides our feet, and for a time we’re merely chasing that flick that strums our spine.  It's when we first get up, we really think we see.