by Edward Miller 

Words are not pickled

but neither are they just picked.

By which I mean

they have their own agenda

and you must adjust.

Words are neither opaque nor transparent.

By which I mean

they are free to feel the burden and privilege

of accuracy and obfuscation.

Words are not toilet-trained.

By which I mean

they leave rabbit-like pellets of poop with every hop.

 

But what happens at night when you crave serenity and slumber? Sharp-edged words collect in the wind and form a twister in your mind. If only you could catch one and stop the others from whirling about. If only silence was a place to which we could fly. If only. If.

 

One day I decided

I could wash these words.

By which I mean

they are sullied and stained.

One day I decided

I could dry those words.

By which I mean

they are soaking in sudsy water.

One day I decided

I could make a flag

out of washed and dried words

and wave it high above my house.

All my neighbors would then salute it

though it stands for nothing.

By which I mean

words are cloth and

words are pattern and

words are color. And.

By which I mean. If only. If.

To which we could fly. One day.