Keith S. Wilson
there is a moment in learning a language, love,
when the translation becomes a burden.
the word is not there, nor the symbol—the sheep
nor the razor nor the solid color blue.
the sense shoots to the heart,
like hemlock or prayer, and you
crackle open, compliant
to the godhead, and there is no thinking,
only the twin balance
of disparate bodies, only an awareness
made by the void that frames something known:
this is the unspeakable, made different
by the absence of all that it can’t encompass.
this black understanding. you
have been gone for some time. when i think of you
it is not even you i am thinking of.