To Tell the Truth

The histories of
our lives are small. My words
soft criminals
afraid of what they were
meant to be - we sit
meanwhile, on the porch
watching enormous
clouds, feeling like our bodies
are tiny portals
passed through by great shapeless things.

Things too grand in their nakedness
not to be covered
with at least a compromise,
a few lies and negotiations.

Travis Dean

If you've any comments about this poem, Travis Dean would be pleased to hear from you.