between moans,
or like reflux
in the night,
conviction hits us
in the gut.
I feel it in my bones,
we say—
or, I know that
in my heart—
because certainty
is selfish—
by which I
mean: it lives
inside us.
Whereas doubt,
thank goodness, is
a migratory process,
a striking out
for parts unknown.
We suspect
it underlies us
when in fact it
wouldn't touch us
with a ten foot pole.
Like spit
or a shout,
it was really only built
to burst
from our mouths,
then bolt
like hell for its
actual home.
