Saturday, March 16, 2024


Whenever you can, you go
Looking for it, wandering,
Trying to get close, although

It always surprises you
That when you do, you drift off,
Losing what’s in front of you,

Back into language static,
Silent language, like the kid
You were once, in the attic,

Ruffling through dusty bookshelves,
Ignoring your surroundings
Until the coyotes yelp,

And you look up from reading,
As if you could see the howls,
And there it is, the breathing

Of the unmagical world,
The just-there mud, stones, and air,
Earth, the disenchanted world

The coyotes are singing,
The language of everything
That doesn’t spell anything.

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