women calves

truth

do not look for truth in poetry;
there is
no truth
to be
found

truth lies
in the grease of the frying pan
in the body decaying in the tall grass
in butchers knives
in beds of other lovers
in flowers wilting
in lions hunting deer in the plains
in children pulling legs from spiders
in the wreckage of an ambulance
in curves of womens calves
in a bleeding fingertip

do not look for truth in poetry;
it exists only
to distract
the poet
from what
the truth
is