With the first word
The skin begins to thicken
As if resisting revelation,
So that which and what
Conceal why—as a cloud
The sky. Perversely trying
By mouth and lips to exhume
The heart (or even just
The bones) of him or her,
Instead sounds plant a stem
Of not and never within
All cells and soil. Every small,
Separate moan—which
Speech cannot gather, as
The tide piles sand and rock
Into beach and steppe
Instead of one deft edifice—
Misses once and twice
With its inept escape.
It cannot breach your eyes
Or even slip
Through your smile
Because—it is true—
A word is less
Than you.
Than you.
