Le mot désabusé

We wish it was how well you said it
Through us, but in the end it isn’t,
Is it? In the end, the beginning

Might have been nudged along
By the strangeness in the tuneless song,
But there’s got to be something in it,

In us, something someone can find in us
And find in us and find in us. Worse,
It’s most likely something the someone

Already knows or nearly knows, was hoping
To find confirmed, in one of those moments
Of encountering patterned words

And seeing the world anew while feeling
Seen. Which means, it’s not enough
To say something well enough. We must

Say something someone, enough
Someones, want to know’s been said,
And then, also, strangely and well,

So it sounds fine to repeat and repeat
Again, with a wistful shake of the head,
How the best are like that, the best

Words in the best places. But we can’t
Just say whatever words most want to say,
Whatever we’d like to have meant. We must

Say the sorts of things persons come to lines
To find in us, the best kinds of meanings,
The kinds that can be loved once found

And found in us, and then pronounced well-said.
Then, maybe, our little patterns might get
Given some rent-free space in some heads.