You are meant to get lost here
among words in a country
of wordsdiaphanous words

holding a plea against some
wretched, hard reality,
against precision’s pinned-down

rage minutely dissecting
one more hapless pain, against
edgy acid ironies

lying uneasily on
open satin-lined caskets
imprecise words (joy/hope/love)

suspending death, that lifeblood
of being alive. Words that
see into the life of things,

brook the way one of childhood’s
long summer days lets go its
miracles: steady but some-

how faintly glimmering like
imaginary birds that
might be souls, spirits or tricks

of light. You, me, all of us
vulnerable as any
naked thing born of burned-out

stars (or more correctly: of
resurrected celestial
energy) slowly rowing

our nameless selves as if we
were ghostly sculls noisily
slapping our inexpert oars

out of a fog bank into
the near clarity of in-
definable star-thick nights.

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