I know you know what it’s like
To want to write but not have the words.

For instance, let’s say a dude recently
rediscovered running,
rappelling ropelessly up barriers
(What barriers?).

Restoration and renewal and relearning living.
Revitalized and realizing that somewhere along the way,
he’d forgotten a few things that turned out
to be important

(anyone who’s built a spaceship will understand).

Let’s say this guy has opened up;
Neruda’s XIV, still years ’til XX.

And he wants to write.
What’s there to say?

There are words to describe the epiphany
when our toes and the grass meet and remember again that they are for each other.
But they never speak of this affair, and I’d rather not be the one to render their writhing redundant.

I have too many words and no life within them.

I want to say that your hair is lovely, no matter the color,
but again, it would only be words,
and the truth is that the beauty comes from somewhere else anyway.

It’s enough to make a person want to believe in god
just so he could have someone to thank for all of this.

For the feeling of grass copulating through curled toes,
or the joy of poetry, mine and yours,
intermingling lines, a remembrance of a memory of youth.

It’s enough to make a person not mind being redundant.
To whimsically write a haiku before everything ends.

My fingers push through
hair (what color?). Curling toes,
our legs intersect.

Someday, maybe.

Maybe I don’t need words for this.
Maybe it’s inside us already, important and forgotten,
waiting to rush forth from neglected sensations.

Or maybe it comes from somewhere else
And it’s worth it to find the words
to write it all down.

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