There was this doubt keeping me awake.
It doesn’t matter what about.
(Doubts are their own contents)
I was pacing up and down
the checkered of my doubt,
toying endlessly with details
that weren’t getting anywhere.

For months I played the headless hopscotch
of my doubt, titillated by whites, the premonition of blacks.
Returning home it was there. Tossing in bed
it was there, waking up, there, sure thing
like a single slipper.

One night I put on the lights
of all the certainties I had. They didn’t amount
to more than a cigarette
against night, the deepest of mirrors.

Then, one day, it was gone. I don’t know how,
why, exactly.
Easier than understanding is acceptance.
Easier than acceptance—fatigue.
One day something replaced it,
some thing that felt solid, secure, faithful, and cozy
like a prejudice.

___

West Branch, Summer 2006