Stutter Poetica

There where language ends is not where the unsayable begins, but rather the matter of language. He who has never reached, as in a dream, that woodlike substance of language that the ancients called silva, remains, even when he is silent, a prisoner to representations.

—Georgio Agamben

    Spring again:

                the meadow longs            to repeat itself

                                        Grass sprouts ligamental         in the swale

                Seedthreads

                tendril frantically            toward heat