THE LAST TRUTH OF THE TRUTH TELLER

this is what the truth teller looks like
its bones provide complete transparency —
the birth of its successor in the womb of a tree

will come round at last no longer hidden —
although its future is immanent nobody can speak
of an eminence in the present tense

the head of a stag or a bull has import
nods unsteadily in time the bone forefinger
that wags with a faster tempo

it all makes time in black and white
invades then ignores the narrative
throws out the narrative as a bad innovation

scores out words as they approach
marks the picture with straight lines —
the story of the Minotaur was once told

it was told as a truth the truth teller
no longer tells — the result is this last one
its frivolity a finality that sits — cannot run

post truth will leak dreams of poems
drafted by a moving finger —
each poem in turn will put flesh on the bone