Writing
As Plato knew, has holes. The Poets
Were not allowed refuge in his ideal republic;
A place
Where philosophers were kings
And vice-versa. I have a different idea
About
words, words, words. They can
Say so much though so much is left
Unsaid.
And in the silence between those holes
The space is filled: a gesture, a look,
A universe of meaning. The turn of the lip
And the crinkle of the eye
Show and make and tell
A love that is not just know
But felt, in galaxies unknown to
Astronomers, and organs unfamiliar
To
The anatomist and words unavailable
To mere philosophers.
No comments:
Post a Comment