Don’t believe the sign
that is clawed from another’s cave
of a silly heart, onto some door
in some beautiful garden on a special day.
That scraped shine, that which
opens wide the view for you
and you remember as a sharp, etched
slowly focusing glaze on your time
was probably made with some key
of some fool who regrets it now, no doubt,
as you do.

Nor should you believe another’s photograph of it
and take it as yours, or the same,
and think that this is what you were going
to write your book about, one day, all along.
That book was full of naïve wonders
and melodies you paid too much attention to, anyway.
So just allow what you love the most
to be scrapped and substituted.
Words are just words, you see.

So what do you believe?
The motionless things of a winter walk, I suppose.
They are the kindest.
They know not to talk to you, not to say anything
you could possible believe.