About The Language. And Inevitable Death

About The Language. And Inevitable Death

Once upon a time
(and this is before you or I
or your mother or the dry disappearing women
who live under bridges were born)
words—some
words—had meanings unlike today’s.
Night, for instance.

And Alone. Alone, alone could fill all the space
between all the yellow cities on the map with a hollow
more empty than the echo of the emptiest of moved-from homes,
dust where the dresser was, a penny, half a toothpick.

But we live in pre-owned valleys, and cook
on the stove that came with the house.
Wearing heirloom language to work, to regret,
to shop for our suppers, we name common things.

And say we die and go to heaven.
Call the yellow night sky black.