the door half closed
or opened.
the laughter inside, the music of belonging.
the fireflies outside, blinking their private tribal codes.
standing in the liminal space,
a sheer veil, a portiere,
a great divide.
the softness of my mouth, maybe,
or the texture of my silence.
the truth of my eyes or the
truth of my heart.
or,
the truth.
pulled into the light.
the truth,
boldly faced.
the truth.
caught in my throat like a butterfly in winter.
under the boughs of a sleeting and frigid rain,
smoke curls and fire cracks.
inside is a dark hollow of questions.
outside is nothing but snow.
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