Most of the important things to sayare ill-defined.
Destined to slather through your hands
and dissipate like turpentine
gob-smacking you hapless,
hopeless to translate your own heart.
Most of the important things to say
are tasteless and stitched.
Grated to spike stars in your dizzy head
like alcoholic pine pitched
clean-searing you artless,
starved to recruit love's rapport.
We wonder what words will
be sure enough to share
all the import and intent
we dare,
without offending
what words will.
We know choice matters
but have no ken
as to what words will
carry clear,
enough to render mute
the hard-hearted fear
of those most dear
to what words will.
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