Slant
Not quite right-angled, but not straight;
the truth’s somewhere between.
It’s in interstices our fate’s
divined — it's serpentine.
I’ve seen it shimmer into view,
and then away it slides.
No compass gauges what is true,
or measures out the tides’
oblique advancement and retreat —
complicit with the moon —
that every day repeat, repeat,
their susurrated tune.
