What Would That Feel Like, Bare-Footed?

Some words wish there were half words,
Half-syllable words, paused cries,
Half-gesture signs, hand vanished

In the middle of the air.
What we’re saying is, we can’t
Get small enough to suit us.

We would like to be small stones
Of some kind of worthless rock
That fit together, not walls

Or ruins for you to view.
Murmuring admiringly
About the craft and labor,

Not henge, not Machu Picchu—
Something like mosaic tile,
But with no pictures on it,

No myths, no stories, no proof
Of geometric genius.
Just a floor knit from small words,

Snug word stones that fit like teeth
Once countless generations
Of selection fitted them.