Who knows what to expect?
I could say what I feel
Say what I think
Or neither, which might be the best.
Lidless eyes open in dark
To whom is it offense to admit what I do not know?
One last unwritten stanza
Dangles unrhymed from the window sill
Even as I raise the shade I see it
Eight fingers pressing on the chipped paint, waiting
To be said. From one thing
Another always follows, truth or guesswork
Until the fingers slip
And then pavement.