Language aspires in redolent
circles pulsating but never reaching the far
shores draped in willow and moss
The tension of words not spoken, fobidden,
matched only by that of the words we dared to speak.
No.
Never spoken but reduced to symbols depeted of power
some. Like a school of fish convulsed on a stony beach
tearing the protective film. We see they also bleed red.
Still there are some that escape, committed,
flying if only briefly before falling to a gravity
we did not see yet feared all the same.
The stillness of our anger subsides.
Another history unknown.
We have no other choice.
We have no other words.
We deny even these.

Choose your words. Carefully.
Chew your words.
Twenty times. They won't come out so wrong.
Then it was time to dress.
There was nothing. But skirts.
There are no metaphors. Without awareness.
I will not wear any thing. That bites. Today.
Tell me then. How
It is that we learn to. Start. For
getting how we
Remember

nothing else less

books of words like
hope is dying
others we can't yet sound
the meaning is keening above in the night
like the owl to the cat who in black
comes slinking in only after
roaring round the corner like
a bat out of hell
proverbially
and then
you come
riding through like a wind
through the mountain alps
and there
is one other
another
a solitary friend in shadows dusk
soldiering on
like a child's toys battered missing their color
to the craters and the dents of exploded artillery
with letters nonetheless
to write to those left behind where not
once written not
left is much more
is left
to roll on but always
the birds fly on their famous vees
no longer for victory or anything
of the sort
we are all
weirdly armed
on this night
for this night
the one after the one we remember
that never ends as though
it never was.
But still we know.