But I had been used to words for a long time. I knew that that word was like the others: just a shape to fill a lack…
—William Faulkner, As I Lay Dying
In a pew you can’t recline much;
not much leg-room either.
Soon they’ll be a few folk walking the aisles
like air hostesses on jetliners.
For now it’s the
woosh of words
like pressurized air motorin’
erodin’em—righteous flecks in a whir of flotsam
, ramjets, disintegrations
Some words are just shapes to fill a lack
—white-noise-words without pigmnet
; over-said-words that evaporate like contrails
miles behind the pulpit
(there’s a majesty in the clouds,
fill up to break loose).
It’s writ, The word became flesh.
Words that don’t incarnate
ain’t no good-words, just words that don’t reckon
the nimbocumulus overhead,
run in circles, diminish and
disappear in belches and accretions:
perish, putrefy like fishes—wash
away in the cloudburst.
First published in the Fall/Winter issue of Nimrod International Journal (2012)