Scrutinizing some writing
Someone published in Paris,
Roughly three decades ago,
You realize you are struggling
To analogize language,
To say what language is like.
Why you’re bothering with this,
Who knows? Nothing’s to be solved.
Who cares what language is like?
Three times you’ve started drafting
A poem in response to it.
Three times you’ve spun out in sand.
It’s not there’s nothing to say.
There’s too much depth to soft sand.
Sometimes the means have no end.
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