perfectly still.
The problem of truth is that like a very clever fish
or freaking fly
it won't stay what it is
for language to catch it.
The overarching unanswerable question
for which you can hardly begin to find the words
for which metaphor is the metaphor
and poetry the vehicle
whose breakdown
provides only the dim comfort of assurance
and the sadness of knowing
it is there
maybe
urging you closer by this
whose words shift
at the fault—carrying the net of your mind
like a dimsighted guide—
where metaphors
dissolve
and wordless being
emerges
shakes
and there’s nothing
you can do.
