“We have too much to gain from the gods, and this is why they fail to love us…” – John Burnside

We once found a word we’ve now forgotten,
explaining a concept that drifted away
        like vapour
            & left us,
in the same way
that everything
        eventually must
            We were dreaming
about perfect expressions of language,
about harmony between anguish
        & affirmation;
for what can never be achieved:
a gift from the gods that may or may not
            a gift
of significance & meaning.

But meaning must be made
like a statue of clay
we leave out in the rain:
a gesture of defiance
we know in advance
        will not last,
            & yet
                we do it anyway.

& as for significance, well,
that can only be given by the gods
        & the gods
            don’t listen,
because they can’t:

we haven’t discovered perfect language yet.

The fact that the gods don’t seem to exist
is irrelevant,
            doomed as we are
to the merciless law of entropy
from which nothing prevents
beauty from going under the
        weight of history, by
continually searching for

            those perfect words.

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