Postscript

Before I come around again,

I’m sure you’ll have changed

at least the color of your lips.

I didn’t lie when I said I only see

my family once a year.  Me

and my violent initiatives to tell the truth,

which is, frankly, that I can’t tell

any difference between what I see

and fantastic visions I roll with, strapped

in a bucket seat and accelerating. 

I’ve quit dichotomizing.

Even the bits I thought I was clearly making up

have all, inevitably, come true, resisted confession

in the jacket of prophecy, cognizant repositionings,

pretty much for the sake of writing to you.