Why was I ever
Certain of this
That knowing the right word
Would unlock the world
Would guarantee human understanding
We weren’t reading from the same dictionaries
We were piecing things together
As if the language were made of rags
Or speaking in pictographs at the circus
Of our own choosing
On the surface of everything a million clowns
How have the seas relinquished their depths
I anguish in a thousand dreams
Gesturing with seashell hands.
mary angela douglas 17 march 2024
No comments:
Post a Comment