Hunting the Truth

I spied a truth skipping
Through the brome
On the long walk home.
Did you know it is rare to see a truth
In its natural environment
And very little is known about them?

We know all truths are blind
But sensitive to other stimuli,
Such as crying or mocking,
Which makes them extend
Their haunches and split
Into pieces, much like a lizard’s

Tail, and hide in clouds or graves,
Depending on the season. But that’s all.
On this day I saw one
Undetected, and I crept up behind it
As slowly as an old man
Peering over the edge of a cliff.

It had stopped to paw
At a paper wasp’s nest.
Its plumage was quite striking,
And it was scenting the air
All around it with a strange musk.
Like I said, I was walking home

But I had my cast net
And I began to unwind it carefully,
And I could feel myself going
Stupid with anticipation.
I was as silent as a doll reading
On a shelf in a child’s room,

And just as I was about to throw,
It arose to display its intruder warning
And split and shot like a phantom
Into a grave, and the wasps
Plunged their stingers into my skull.
It was one more in a lifetime of lost truths.