And so the words end
As if they never did exist
Whatever was recalled
Now chatters through the leaves
Is it trauma
That we never know
Or trauma
That we hurt before
The words
Could almost console?
We ask so much of ourselves
To have a limit
For example
As if that's what is natural
To catch things in a net
But never capture
What they were
When they were alive
Our stock and trade it seems
Is a mysterious figure in black
A servant
To our inherent errancy
And our highest sobriety
Of bearing iteration
But maybe it serves
Not us at all
But what keeps us
Held inside
Artificial walls
The world set free from words
How could we approach it
Without obliterating ourselves
The words of
What we are
