Are words the thing they speak about? The cup

that holds the wine? Are they the guardians?

The flags that signify? The anchors up

when ships set sail? The calm meridian

between the hemispheres? The word made flesh

is what religion holds. The texture of

divinity, a cup that overflows.

To find the truth of things – the great because,

retreating as horizons swallow sky –

a noble task. With ingenuity

a sheet of paper may be coaxed to fly,

a likeness sketched with cool veracity.

Skilful lips can imitate a bird,

a miracle – to hold it in a word.


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