Sincerity

Sincerity
is not proffered as one hands a drape to a welder on a scaffold,
or forced like a booster shot into a muscle,
and cannot be barreled along containerized with industrial bins for expedited delivery.

You faded back into a gray-blue line of an uneven shore.
I approached several times, tacked, fell away.
And here you were found—with warmth for a compelling proposition—side to side—you
listened—my import was measured—you had a new thought—the fog dispersed for at least a few moments.

Moments of potential,
during intaken breaths,
to reach a view we could embrace together.
And while the seal failed to descend on what we newly discovered,
your responses were dealt in gracious increments—in the space
between two doorways—or a gap that an intercom tugs against—a stair
that ascends for hours without pause—the anteroom
of the novice guardians, where tokens are exchanged
during the intervals before the construction of the temple—a spotlight upon
a studied pretentiousness.
I asked just for what you had already given.
At the heart of the conversation an oval comprehension was ensconced,
which we never pried from its setting,
or acknowledged with a receipt,
or held up to the fluorescents for dispassionate inspection,
and which did not finish birthing,
and was not a part of words,
and therefore can never appear in a poem.

Andy Oram
November 9, 2006

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