No joy to the reader
To efface
What's already
Been destroyed
The scraping sound
Of the word ecrit
Untranslatable
The girl with the nectarine
Hair walks by
With her Pekinese
There are no words
But these
To describe it
And an other side
That never saw the girl
And will never know
Except in words
That reveal
It's impossible
The place is known through those
Who are lost in it
Groaning with absence
To the knowers
Who gnaw at the smoke
And the bitters
Want the book to have
Predictable music
To call forth
Lost memories of their own
For the wordless to
Grow words
From great distances they join
In a war of gestures
Complicity
As a buzzing in the air
Brittle and comforting
Strangely true
