No such thing as confidence.

Unless you have confidence in that fact, there’s a thing.

A trust in oneself, a humble trust that the self will go on.


As in confide.

It’s a secret told to the self, trusting that it won’t be betrayed.

A secret – there’s the rub.

There’s no secret worth telling the self.

It’s all before you anyway.

All on offer, either taken or passed.

Accepted or denied in the arc of personal story.

A chimney-top crow waiting on the crack of dawn – yes.

A thought of what someone else might think – no.

A draft through the floorboards.

A rat-nibbled pear in the fruit bowl.

An obituary email.

The growing bump on an inseminated woman.

Tree tops yawning for the early sun.

Yeah, yeah, yeah . . .

The confidence of what appears being true.

And all else untrue.