There are no new words, the poet writes, only new ways to make them felt. I crossed over into another tongue and found my tongue had a sensation I had not known how to name. And in another tongue, there was a name for the relation I had not had. And he would smash words together, refuse the rules of space and separation, and make worlds. There is worldmaking.
Friends move into the intimacy of flowers. Universes are disclosed and withheld. Worlds within worlds within worlds. We know the language of pollen and nectar, of mutuality that we want to frame as extraction. Beyond that, so much else that we can only name beauty and mystery. To be enthralled by mystery. A scientist pulls apart a flower, as though the mystery of flowers yields so easily to such impudent curiosity. Something retreats to another world and a world beyond that.
What sits in the throat. That song had been lost. And a tune was trying to find its way around chords that would not vibrate. They were tight. Or loose. Or felt wrapped in a language that demanded sacrifice to release sound. Such excavations. To find a word. Any word. Or a sound. A word to describe a sound. Or a shape of the mouth. Or the impossibility of sound and shape to live in this unit of time. It could have been. It might have was.
Anniversaries approach. And it feels like it accumulates. Everything held over the year visits to sit and to ask what has been done with feeling. Where did you put it. What did it do. How did it move. And with whom was it left. There are altars. I have no candles. The libations are unpoured. It is raining.