The Half-Inch

I measured and got forty-seven,

then forty-six and a half.

The wall kept changing. Half-heaven,

half-lie. I laughed—

actually, I didn't. I just

stared at the blur where

certainty became rust,

where nothing stayed clear.

I couldn't measure again.

Couldn't bear the wall's small game

of shifting dimensions. And then

I stopped pretending the frame

mattered. The picture sits

on the floor. Not today.

The wall won't show me what it is,

and I've learned to stay

away from the tape, the numbers,

the half-inch that made me doubt.

Let the picture slumber

on the floor. Leave it out.