what is gone
tumbles forth
in the drum of our minds
as a stone
to be polished;
it rolls off
our uncluttered tongues
so discretely
that we measure
its weight, and then call that
the truth.
But what persists
cannot be
parsed or counted,
or owned
any more than the air
that fills the room;
while we mill around
and think and speak, it wafts
between us invisibly,
evocative as perfume
or the taste of good honey
to our taciturn senses,
and so inexplicable,
even to our voices, that we
fudge it slightly
in our recollections
and judiciously call it
the beauty.
