I was just reading Louise Glück’s October poem. And there’re these lines:

Between herself and the sun,
something has ended.
She wants, now, to be left alone;
I think we must give up
turning to her for affirmation.

I don’t know what language does, but it does something. It digs. It reflects. It creates. That’s why we turn to language: we must speak, or we die. The world was spoken into creation wasn’t it? So why don’t you pick up a pen and write about what language does.

Here’s mine for today:

It sounded like an incantation,
or church bells tolling, musical
tinkling sounds of the evening.

Don’t we want a slower pace now
that we’re bruised, nursing a bad knee–
ah, kneeling would be a bad idea.

I needed her words, deep echoes
my permeating ears solaced in,
burying toes in sand.

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