On Reading Yet Another Poet Profess Faith in the Profound Inadequacy of Language

To misquote one rum theologian,
What’s unknown’s unknown. Apophasis
Is no way to get there, and it won’t

Even get you as far as nowhere,
Although simple dying will. And don’t
Keep telling words that it’s all our fault,

That there’s all this real world that you sense
Below us we can barely point to—
Well of course there is; of course you do.

Your ancestors were fine animals
Countless generations before us,
But that also hints that what you sense

Below us, outside us, or without
Us is nothing new. Just us who’s new.
If you know something just thanks to us,

Thank us. And if you don’t, what else is
New? Nothing much. Nothing stays unknown;
Nothing much stays new. Always, too true.