Except for the Words, to the Words

From the buffet of the possible
Ways of human being, I feel

I have at least sampled a bit
Of almost everything I could,

And from that most human thing,
Talking and thinking about things,

I’ve not only sampled, I’ve gorged.
So why am I not already full?

The problem, as always, is metaphor,
Conceit—every word we speak’s a figure

Of speech, and no talking about the world
Is the world, except for the words,

To the words, their own worlds. Today,
I break my fast at dawn while a svelte jay,

Blue and black, cries at me from a pine,
Throws a crooked look, then flies away.