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.
Saturday, March 16, 2024
Nameless
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16 Mar 24
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