Complex

underneath this two toned mask

I behold the scraps of disarray

and gather the tears

falling from loving places

on the face of my angel.

Peeling back old paint

and orange rinds

I watch the labor of my fingers

unearthing old truths

and honey sweetness.

And all last night I dreamed

of the spinning searching sound

we use to pry into the after hours.

The stretching and reconciliation

of our bargaining mortality

speaks out from old poetry

beneath headstones and lucky pennies.

Let's dive into the uncertainty

with stones around our necks

and sink beneath the desultory surface;

we protect our ability to remain complex.