When Words Fail
Cascades of them
Would not do no one justice,
They, being far too narrow fellows
Squirming in the grass,
Brandishing the blades like haughty soldiers
Drawing slithering images in the soil with their wagging--
Lost easily in the thick weeds.
Slivers of woody intrusions under fingernails.
Corporations of the weak--
Phalanx of them, line up, painful--
Impossible disinterment of memories
From the grassy knoll where they lie hidden.
Large swatches of cloth,
Christo drapes across the Rio Grande,
Drifting in the wind.
Yards and yards of tulle
Draped loosely about ancient Greek statues and Ionic columns.
Needed, instead, an army of Japanese painters
Swishing in broad strokes with hake brushes
Sweeping delicately across the white pages in black ink,
Thick black slices etched forever on white;
Paint squiggles dancing on a receding red sunset
Where ebon leaves cling to one another
Entwine and clutch each other
In a never-ending embrace.
Instead, design delicate hake -induced grins.
A fete of surprises.
And leave a trail of complex swirls
intricate shape and design,
borne off the sides of the hake.