After the explosion, That really wasn’t an explosion-which would have been preferred- Probably more an implosion; a cave in Where everything that had been built -nope, too passive- Where everything that I had built-crumbled in on me Suffocating Crushing. Had it been an explosion all would have been blasted free and gone. To the four corners, as they’d say Leaving me free under the stars, With space to walk around, free to look for Pieces that might fit together again in some form or fashion. Maybe even better this time. First the moon, then the sun, Light my path across fields, dusty roads, Swamps, fetid drainage ditches that never drain. Under bob wire, along streams, Finally to the hard pack just at town's edge. There was nothing. Not a piece of a shred of a shard, Of the lies that had built my life. It might be a good thing, That I was still wearing them where they’d collapsed across me like bloodied drapes or entrails of a gut shot buck. It was night again. So unimaginable. I’ll wait till morning-there’s one more place to look. Why tell the truth, my old man used to say, When you have a lie that fits so well.