How do we, even on a dare,
call this everywhere?—
as if we're not still
all trapped in here
with the double-edged stars.
It's as if each of us,
burning after privacy,
has built our own house—
our foreordained blunders, its
inviolable walls.
Each of us, for once,
wants to be
the only one who does the wanting;
on the integers, on tomorrows.
We have risked the keeping of a secret ledger,
an unscrupulous balance
of doubt and contentment,
apprehended the fealty
of its dog-eared corners
to our present-day predicaments.
We have learned to take snifters
of liqueur in our coffee—
to insulate
the incoming bitterness
from the imminent
underlying sorrow.