Words. Not that they fail. Rather serve too well.
I know precisely who I long for. Whom?
My heart cannot bear to say what my hands tell.
Shape, color, texture, heft–these comfort me.
I lay them out in a cool-quiet room.
Words. Not that they fail. Rather serve too well.
The surface of things is all I can see
or want to see–not cradle, nor tomb.
My heart cannot bear to say what my hands tell.
Arrange. Rearrange. What else could they be?
Meaning is swept out with memory’s broom.
Words. Not that they fail. Rather serve to well.
Without memory, all meaning floats free–
vague traces in dust, the shade of perfume.
My heart cannot bear to say what my hands tell.
Glue stick, glue gun–adhering is the key.
Without memory, meaning cannot loom.
Words. Not that they fail. Rather serve too well.
My heart cannot bear to say what my hands tell.