It is crazy to try, but more crazy to ignore that which cannot be gained by the employment of language. Words hang from our mouths like lost notes. We collect them because we believe that the attempt of telling might activate a parallel tone in minds that share the harmonics. The thing is ever beyond us. Sometimes our eyes connect in perfect intersection of sympathies as if we knew for certain.
Words come as an afterthought.
They cannot impart incorporeal wonder any more than a liturgy precipitates visions. The sun rises, stone walls dissolve. I clench a marigold in my teeth and tango on the flaming grass. The soil beneath is black with crematory ash. I pray the lawn is thick enough to hide the darkness I dance over.