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R. T. Castleberry
Something About the Truth
I confess to breakfast banalities,
a cinderblock sense of honor,
a stab to the throat at the smallest complaint.
I take the burden as the job—
forging the famous letters collection;
a gas leak and the locked red door;
how to turn a mistress to stranger once again.
A sleep cycle stretch of prophesy
tumbles conclusive heresies,
the maudlin with the mocking.
Irritants aside, cell phone sentiments apply:
I’ve never lied that you know about.
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