When my knee buckles and erupts
in pain, I know
it will be a cold wet day.
No great mystery.
Only to decipher you
with such ease…
I read the signs of our seasonal change
and believe the worst is finally behind us.
Only to find a reopened wound…
If my eyes burn magenta
and the inhabitants of my nostrils
execute an endless escape plan
with nothing left behind but a trail of slime,
spring has returned.
No need to consult an oracle.
In February, who needs the meteorologist
to tell them it’s cold
when they see the willows wiggle in the wind
while ice sickles cling to roof cliffs for dear life?
Yet with you, how do I discern?
Half of you always lies. The other always tells the
truth. Dismiss your words as fallacy,
I’m the Golem;
if I believe them,
I’m the dunce fooled again.
What choice do I truly have
but to stumble along in the tunnel of darkness
never to know if I will ever find my way out?
Will I ever see the light?
Or just be pulverized to pulp
by an approaching