sometimes language is like a pocket full of useless keys;
words can only suggest
the best they can do is vaguely point the way,
like a gentleman in a three piece suit who, running late,
when asked for directions,
to a seamless connection
to the inner life of a cloud
left to its own choreography in a vacant parking lot
can only smile, and wave vaguely at the moon.
dark vowels and a loose handful of consonants are like broken wings
to take us from the particular
to the immense.
they can only grope around the way things seem
when reaching for descriptions.
words are poor marooned syllables, washing ashore;
ecstatic, reunited, mysterious remnants of the wholly unsayable.