The Word Made Word

What is the show? What makes it whole?

Perhaps it’s like the rain, or sun, or snow,
or fog – a sort of meteorologically
unavoidable phenomenon of doggedly
determined soul – evincing temperature

and wind, humidity: tactile haptic certainty –

a palpability that adds to actuality – finding,

filling absence – insisting it’s as indispensable

as air. But now I look and nothing quite like

that is there, or here. Or rather, what I feel now –

what I now discern as real – is more elusive

even than a propagating atmosphere.

The darkest curvatures of night retain a seed

of some full panoply: ready always to incite –

and germinate inside the womb of Cosmos’

eerie light – beckoning whatever whirls,

abounds, resounds, perturbs. New ecstasies

find words. Few nouns – innumerable verbs.

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