There where language ends is not where the unsayable begins, but rather the matter of language. He who has never reached, as in a dream, that woodlike substance of language that the ancients called silva, remains, even when he is silent, a prisoner to representations.
—Georgio Agamben
SPRING AGAIN:
the meadow longs to repeat itself
Grass sprouts ligamental in the swale
Seedthreads
tendril frantically toward heat
damp aggregate
O syntax of connective fiber
O blanched oak alluviated wood
Nothing is beyond texture
Wind mouths the shape
of clouds as they pass
I mouth the shape
of of
I tongue its side its rocky crop
O accuracy
beyond representation each thing
according to its shape
Give me language
in true terrain
Let me reach tendon
vigor
Let me touch knitted bone