by Cameron Mount
Sit back
and let them wash over you
saturate, permeate, simmer
context clues will tend the rest
if only, if only
but I protest: the world was too big
to know what to know
it would come to me, surely
impress itself, naturally
me, standing idly in the center of a tundra
stark, expectant silhouettes in an encircling horizon
well? someone calls
forms, foliage, longings in between
but I have no words for them
their visions are indistinct and sheer
and I see straight through to the faces
make something, be something, embark before it’s gone
cries a voice, behind the mirage of an unknowable infinite
a voice of unsettling conviction
I tell him I’ll try
and I ask for a dictionary.
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