July 19*

it is in our memory
when there were no words

but experience seemed to sometimes coalesce
into meaning, some sort of bewitching unity

which gave forth—birthed—words
and each word was a poem—marvelous, infinite

blossoming to a litter of words, sentences, stories
books and thoughts
of every unimaginable sort

and now:
there is something here
—many somethings—
sure, strong, active
for which there are no words

i cannot tell you
look.
breathe.
apprehend.

remember.