Sincerity
is not handed like a cloak to a traveler
or a cot to the weary;
it is not injected into a patient’s muscle
or barreled along a crowded gangway.
Sincerity
comes to rest like a Tarot card
that has tumbled from its Arcana into a chance encounter.
I embarked on my project, tacked, stalled—a highball with proposals
and pretensions balanced on its rim.
What did you bring me?
Nothing but what I asked.
My petition was
measured—we stood side by side—you expressed
notions—my fog dispersed.
A fresh potential arose from our breathing
in a space that enlarged to hold our view.
At the heart of our encounter was an elliptical comprehension
that we never pried from its setting,
or held up to the halogen lights,
or acknowledged with a receipt,
And which did not finish birthing,
and did not take part in any words,
and therefore can never appear in a poem.
Andy Oram
August 17, 2025