The Secret

They wouldn’t tell me:

the swell of the sea,

the fish, that avert my gaze

in their scurrying, schoolish way;

my muscles when I’m swimming;

my skin when I anoint it;

my eyes as they drop and drop;

nor the person at the till

in this exchange of glances and electric



That gecko would have told me

but sudden death found it before,

its whitish belly and adhesive pads 

upside down.


This sharp contrivance

of four figures in permutation

when I look at the calendar in awe —


I know it must be there somehow

or another.


My parents behind a cloud of confusion,

they might be wanting to tell me 

all the time.


Or people in general, they must roar it at me

when I brush past them in my hasty,

brazen pace.


There was this jackdaw,

it was going to say something —

I took a close picture of it instead,

kind of awesome.


What are you looking for?