Artiste

There are secret messages
in my poems, a cryptic flow
just below the surface.
One moment I’m strolling
barefoot on grass,
the next, I’m meters above,
perhaps millimeters.
It looks like I stride on blades
but a slight cushion of air
separates me from earth.

An ant would have to wedge
into the space. Sometimes
he does. Then I’m walking
on an exoskeleton
and no one knows,
not even the ant.

My wry smile remains a mystery,
to all around. Misdirection,
shading of art
delivers deep satisfaction,
no matter how thin.