Words,
not just oceans,
the brine that dresses the meat
of oysters
says more of the health of the bath
that incubated
the flesh
than
the flesh,
A word
can be a gravitational force
that spins satellites
around us
You ask for a word,
I think of your hands
how pinkish the non-palm side
was
having been scuffed
in a brine of chemicals,
That your hands
too
are like oysters
delicate
and archeological
to the everything
of you
And how
you traced the levee of my veins
like tracing
the calligraphy
of a lost language,
The truth is
We are both searching for a
Word
Much like the Pirahãs
not knowing that lack
of recursion
reverses all of a what
the smartest man at M.I.T.
had proposed.

MORE POEMS