The Secret
Secrets can only be kept
by telling no one.
That secret is best kept
which I refuse to tell myself.
Is it a flinty piece of pain
that would cut
what it touches, so sharp
the hand that holds it bleeds?
Is it frightful, grotesque—
or so radiant the eye that looks on it
goes blind?
Is it precious, priceless —
or ordinary, quotidian,
nothing to write home about?
That secret’s hiding place
is so secure: it is nowhere else
but here. I am that
which I conceal from myself.
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