“Inaudible language of the secret…” ~ Edmund Jabès

What I cannot say, weather sometimes makes explicit. I wish
for language to make myself vivid as a wing, magnetic as a current.

On the London Bridge road, still flooded a day after the hurricane: pumpkins
float from a nearby farm, lit by the surreal glow of distant headlights.

In the night, rivers heave themselves up through audible silences made
by rain. Everything says Shh, shh, everything a restlessness spilled open.

The tools I hold feel useless in my hands. I cannot chisel nor buff,
I cannot join. My heart jangles in time with the tilting winds.

Or a flame. I chip away in secret, embroider in silence.
Easier to sing when the light is like sweetness, not dark.


In response to Via Negativa: Creature.

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