One Word

There is one word that stands

Alone from all if’s and and’s,

Which has no face or hands,

Which, like a glistening bubble,

Floats above the verbal rubble,

Floats too high to be obscene,

Moving moveless and serene.

The word has never been spoken

Past teeth perfect or broken.

No tongue has been known to shape it,

Or fools’ babble to leak it or ape it.

Desperation, fear, or hatred’s keening

Can summon the word’s meaning,

But not the name of the word.

“There's no such thing! That’s absurd!”

Men cry — not quite saying the word.

The Pure Obscure, Terzata #40

The peregrine’s flight, obscure

From speed the eye can’t clearly see,

Takes life in the air, fast and pure.

The wings of the bumble bee

Carry its rotund yellow and black

With aimless invisibility.

Fish beneath frozen ice lack

Form and color and disappear

When seen and don’t come back.

Words are noise and letters blear —

Their insensatenesses inure

Us to understanding. What’s clear

Is unseen, or if seen, a blur.