even with the confusion of tongues. Power resounds
in the invocation of speech. If beyond this wall were utter
silence, would that make us masters of the realm,
armored up as we are with limits? Leave haste for the moment
(it may prove fatal) in favor of a more measured punctuation,
a slave waiting for his master’s demise. You would not be looking
if you hadn’t already found it; the primitive tradition of secret
names as vitreous tesserae lining the hidden apse
lends gravitas and grandeur to the unuttered, a residue
of wasp wings and Freudian slips upon unparted lips.
Inexact interpretation may be therapeutic, sister,
the anagram of a name the cipher to your sorrow.
The waggle dance of bees in a tracery of figures
communicates source to solar azimuth, indicates
nectar, its location near or far from the hive,
or palimpsest, where the flower was,
not as everlasting possession, but the memory
of desire, its traced esprit, the erasure
still visible, still exerting its attraction.