A locked room at the back of the house,
where we go to confront our disunion.
Words leak through cracks in the door
gaps in the floor.
Steam covers the rooftops.
The truth of it is
there is no truth
to be told.
Our two daughters, this brown brick house
the trees out front, silver maple, red oak.
These thoughts are lies to soothe and delude us,
to perpetuate the loneliness we burn into the world.