The plenary does not name the planetary
So it begins
Anew
The dream of impossible speech
The voice of language
Itself
As opposed to
The voice
Of language itself
Who's to know
Which is which
When they are equally
Unreachable
Is the I that speaks
No longer me
Or the Not I that calls
Merely I
That which names has no name
Itself
Like an endless flowing
Forming from the Logos
And DNA shapes
The distant things
That afflict us
Forms into poems
To instill a relation
Where there is none
Just a mark of where
The singular
Once touched
Long lost
In a forest
Of traces
"The heart of the poetic
Lies in its unspeakability."
It speaks because of this
Over and over again
As if the first thing
That's said
Will be the final word
But there are only moments
Lost
The poetic
Goes first
Before any frisson of contact
The sound of hollow jars
Before the guide hand
The echo of what can never
Be allowed
But is anyway
In some strange vaporous land
It knows
We trust
We go
