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ralph robert moore
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Return to poems.
Nothing so cruel as truth
which isn't; the intent instead
to muddy. Not the practiced
hole for the protected half,
the trembling confession with a little
twist, two faces on the same skull.
Not the sudden problem of truth,
like a cigarette inadvertently dropped
into the lap; not the seeing only the hand
pointing at the whole but not the hole;
not the not seeing the birth of a leer
in a back's turn. A horrid silence,
mouth opening across the page,
teeth on text, when we talk.