by Zinta Aistars
Were it in my power - I would renounce this day,
steam it from its gluey edge where it peels away
at earliest morning, dawn still too pale to identify
as color or light, peppered already
with quick, sharp sneezes of doubt:
that its final sheet would remain tamped down
like new, fooling, lie that it is,
first page to last, first glance to final
closing of the eye, white moon
sucked into the black hole of night sky.
I lied. You lied. We pretended warmth
neither heart felt. Undone.
Perhaps the next page turned
may reveal something bright,
truth so golden, I can turn it
in my fingers
like a hard coin and toss it
high, midsky, squinting in delight.
Morning returns, and with it, fool's gold
that it might be:
hope like a coin,