A Secret

I thought it better
Than to say it all at once
Those early morning journeys
That have little to do with plot
Mostly boxed up with faintly circled newspaper, justified;
and dusty cedar shingles, lusty with rough cuts
Sent for free in glance, weightless
Heard in tones, for dogs left outside too long
Never taking form
The risk in being
Wrestled to the ground
Pinned with assumptions
A loose clasp jingling from a badge
The post, tooling through hearty oilcloth
Not leaving a hole, really
Just a faint impression
That something had been
Noncontiguous
A dimple to be wrinkled
If pressed or pushed down
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2.2.10