Two-minded

I believe one thing in my poems & another in my prose, like a window that opens onto different yards depending on the time of day or the presence of other open windows, like a road that leads sometimes into town & sometimes deeper into the forest, where this morning the raindrops glistened on every bare twig, a ruffed grouse throbbed in the leftover corners of night like a drum of war, & I pulled a long white hair through the eyes of my left boot in lieu of a bootlace to keep its stealthy tongue from giving me away, scout as I am for an invading army of distractions, believing one thing in the morning & another in the flat afternoon when objects lose their luster & fall back into the vacuum of anywhere-but-here.