Unspeakable 1.

The best poems stop in the throat. What comes
of the living or the dead: that windy babble
of birds and spring, is honey on spoiled thumbs,
a sweet-slick dummy. For an unspeakable
ache behind the eyes, which sounds slaughter
and symbols hobble, but rises for attention,
thrives its moment in a world of water,
and dies with a dribble too silly to mention.


2/3/09