yaw

There’s right; there’s wrong.
And there’s a wrongly right
You’ve to gamble left
To get to.
But when the polished mirror
Pans in tight,
Suffer it long
In longest, shadeless light:
You can fight and heft
Against a self-like juror;
But, on unmeasured might,
Wrong is the rust you’re left to.
Less has been over-fussed,
So over-trust yourself
To shine what shimmer-must.
Just a gust of true
Is all that’s daring-due
The yaw
That yearns
You right.