There are no words in this world
Yet I persist
In feeling it
In the only way I know
The black external mark
That calls the what is not
To the not what I am
And an essence from a sleeping realm
Shows itself
By whispering "that is wrong"
And indeed those tawny wisps of grass
Can barely without words exist
The palms so tall and foreign
Without my voice
Cannot be sensed
Without becoming so distant
The sensing itself is strange
As if the world is freed
At the point of non-being
Where it refuses to exist
Not in the words I spoke into the darkness
But somewhere else
Impossibly far
But known somehow
In all its particulars
Its silence forced me to reappear
In the sun-translucent leaves
The bee investigations
The purple buds withholding
Any future
