Is it only because we use words to get at meaning
that our words may become the medium of our tale?
what if grief is a kind of inverted awe? is keening
laughter inside-out? whereas when we allow words fail
do we mean our feelings exceed our frame of reference?
or do we but vaguely confess verbal inability?
words of saints & masters stealthily win our deference
do they hold a secret of subtlety & fragility?
or a thing more weighty than gold more shining than flame?
and what of the Silent Master? who will explain how
even he packs words? there's gunpowder in that name!
if an A-bomb blasts does one-fourth really remain while
in a trice three-fourths of a never-was world are gone?
could a novel horizon limn unambiguous dawn?