On Lying
A sad state of affairs,
how poetry has turned me into a liar.
From that first innocent step
of writing about the purely imagined,
to the second stage
of using an "I"
that was not me at all.
And now, graver,
writing about the "I"
that is myself,
but retouching details
to suit the shape of a line.
Only a few minutes ago,
I wrote that I drank coffee
(despite my disdain
for that despicable drink)
because I found it more convenient
than invoking the striped mug
whose water my teabag
so briefly touched
before I whisked it out
and dropped in a slice of lemon:
a frivolous citrous presence
that would surely distract anyone
from whatever it was
I was working so hard
to say.
(First published in Ship of Fools)