the right words

By Nicole Entin

I had been searching, knee-deep in

The poetic unity of past within present,

Chai tea in rooms of warm wood

Entangled in the web that knowledge spins.

There, the dewdrops on the strings are a revelation

Of the truth, or rather the hundred ways it can be

Concealed behind the false-midnight sky,

When around quarter to six the world grows weary,

Pulls darkness inward and turns in for an early bedtime.

There, I had been searching in the abstract,

The fine print terms that are printed across

The lonely outward skin over my knucklebones.

There, I had been searching in the obfuscation

Of the truth, when it had been so truly clear

In the eyes of the mind that was and wasn’t

My own, the eyes that have already written

These words on my behalf in a language 

I will never learn, the poetry of glances,

Of chances never taken. The language

That tries to understand me, the self

That hides all understanding.

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