Words and other odd theories for reality


I think we give too much mystery
away to words and that’s not it at all—

at all—

there’s always the sun, even behind clouds
and there’s always the earth damp
with rain or blistered and cracked like over-term eggs

and there’s always the grunts
we release while sleeping or making love
or drinking coffee to celebrate another afternoon
plastered like concert posters on every pole
of the conversations we engage—

the whole thing’s more like building-blocks
and macrame, the eye’s sharp angle through
a camera’s lens pointed at an event
that happening has already disappeared

and left a mystery—

but not one filled with words.