All Men Have Secrets

When new, the threads glisten and join,
Seen only by you and the other.
The web protects and holds, strengthened
By every hidden glance, every half-thought,
Half-spoken allusion in a language the rest
Can’t hear through the gross static of normality:
In the eyrie, the aery, faery fronds,
Circle the backdrop of a new play.

Beyond reason, it’s treason to feel in this City:
You were, you are, you will be – it is.
The you you think you are is several others – as is
The you you think you’re with. You are
And you are not – and they, the rest
Soon spin skeins of other colours, searching
For the one possible reason they can preach
And give them lines to speak.

Maybe webs aren’t good to pack a case with;
Maybe what’s hidden isn’t true. Maybe
All selves might make one self two, and
Maybe. Strands grow from what
The power feeds on – was it good to taste the warmth
Between your thighs? Open and hidden, the web
Could change colours through all seasons:
It might be what it is
When it is never.