We have it
on good, if somewhat
tacit authority—
we can even taste it
in the fear (which comes
drizzled in lust)
constantly secreted
by the tips of
our tongues—
that some perilous,
inky, imperious
blot
should inexorably appear
at the end
of every sentence.
Life's labor, then, consists
in approaching
this limit,
as doomed stuntmen
who ride for the edge,
but don't hit it—
until we crash
and wreck
that babble tower,
with silence
as our penance.
