Fleeting
  Carole Besharah

Cerulean secrets
at day’s end
        bruising
like the sky at dusk
their weight
        welling up,
aching inside.

The urge to
voice the truth
        rushing
just below the surface,
        waiting
to seep out.
The moment passes.
        Fleeting.

The secrets sink,
sleek sapphires,
into the bowels of
the depthless, still lake
        grazed by
the pregnant moon.

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