Crushed

The urge to pin down
Words that say something
That hasn’t been said,

That feels like it can’t
Be said, not again,
Maybe not ever,

It’s a sort of want,
Both in the sense of
Hunger or longing

And in the sense of
Lack. There’s a shortage
Of what should be said

That grows with saying
Unnecessary
Piles and piles of things

That only gather
Their obscuring wings,
Pulling light with them.

At the horizon
You want to look in
And say what’s inside,

What needs to be named,
What needs describing,
But all you can see

Is what hasn’t yet
Joined with the rest, what
Hasn’t yet fallen.