Underbelly

We look for it. In embers, in the grit under rugs. We look
under the toaster to see if it's there among the crumbs, we look
among the pale root ends of grass where they slide into the ground.
It is meaning. It is what we don't say.

We lie on our backs in case it's tricked us
plays in the cracks in our ceilings, or in the duplicitous clouds.
Or beneath the fringe of the lover who looms above.
It is what we take to be true.

And we search in the coats of our dogs as if
it's carried on the backs of fleas that bustle near the roots
of hairs as they slide into the grease grey skin.

And we search in our pockets as if
it's printed in invisible ink on the backs of bus tickets
or receipts.

It is all the things we think we know, made of magic
and wish.
It is all the things we can be told which raise our hairs
in bristling salutes.
It's in the fall of the coin
In the face of Hanged Man, sublime.

We wake up, heads full of urgent matters. The stuff
of the day, the week. Our plans, our sparkling, pressing plans.

It is dark. We know it. It laughs at us.