2018 Sonnet 34

I don’t share them all. Cards on the table
Can’t hold a candle to cards up the sleeve.
When? Where? My call. I’m simply not able
To publish those I don’t want to believe.

There’s pain in the telling, death in the stew,
Buckshot that might injure more than the mark.
Vagueness and code, I try not to fool you.
I try not to strike up a flint that will spark

Inflamed conversation. Don’t give a thought
To unworthy memories having no place
In blessings abounding the dreamcatcher caught.
Just flies in the ointment, lines on the face.

I don’t share them all. I know when to quit.
Our do I? Who knows if the fuse is lit?

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