Is there no escape?
Oh, there's plenty when we’re twenty minutes old.
Escape is our gestalt, the only game –
more freely full of more than can be told
than when we learn things have a name.
Then what used to gape
into the guileless light shuts tight.
The strict intractability of settled form
debars all flippancy or easy possibility
of freeing fantasy: it cools whatever’s warm.
We lose our bright irascibility
when labels lasso sight.
That has to end up being when,
as soon as sensual perception
gains a shape, becomes syllabically defined,
succumbs to context and syntactical subjection,
an essence drains out of the mind.
There's no escaping then.
But beauty breeds as well in aberration –
indeed may seek the confines of a word.
That you can see a thing take wing
and later learn to label it a bird
may prod a mellifluity of lyric you might sing –
who knows? – to bring alluring lingual liberation.
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