Wrought in the haze—
a thought:
One wonders
the deceit of man,
the authenticity of man;
Usually, at noon,
the doves fly by
my apartment window
seeking refuge from the rain,
or are they?
One ought to know
what lies beneath the radar;
What, the murderer?
What, the frivolous?
What, Atlantis?
Or the giant atop the sky?
Amid the fantasy—
a hideous reality
hides in plain sight
usually at noon.
