Injury

I grow more and more convinced
the truths I know to be mine alone

will never attain the status 
accorded everything obvious,

everything taken for granted
and therefore unquestionable.

The compass points north; it is day 
on the other side of the earth. 

Here in the south, wraparound
is the name for porches extending

from one side of the house to another: 
a kind of lie of continuity, a careful 

median from where one might consider 
interior versus exterior while sitting 

in a smooth monobloc chair. Once, 
I too bore lives into the world— 

the minimum of how many times I was
also wounded. How the merest stroke 

from a night-blooming flower suggests
nothing ever dies, or remains unchanged.