Not Language but the Possibility

— Robert Okaji

Maybe when the rain stops, the night’s
mouth will open to swallow something
we meant to say, like those apologies
discarded on an orphaned deck,
or unvoiced moans in the dream
where a spider’s descending shadow
looms larger than life. Everything,
gulped down. No time for illusion,
for niceties. I can’t transduce that feeling
of inadequacy, the incessant sifting
through fine mesh. The slow fall
as broom meets dust. How to explain
this inability? The neighbor’s
bantam rooster crows his challenge
as abandoned wind chimes tinkle
in the background. I wonder what comes next.
Perhaps a re-composition, a belching of
digested roots. A snort from the belligerent
black lab. Or clogged ears. Consider
the depleted cloud, a whisper floating
through falling leaves, asking, imploring.
And nothing, no one, ever replies.

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