This was the one I wanted to write,
the answer to all the riddles:
an orange nihilism;
a soundless bittersweet poison;
shallow breaths in a wading-pool;
hesitancy in an ocean.
This was my hand, stayed.
My heart, stopped and
from eyes that should have seen.
This was the song
I would have sung
if I had dared,
and all the dances
the rhythm was never right
this is the shape of too much silence,
choked answers and hands played too close,
dense fogs of obscured meaning
throttled in surfeit of thought.
This is ambiguity all dressed up and alone,
from what came before;
this, today, tomorrow,
a riddle with unshaded eyes
perhaps at last
leaving backward glances behind.