In our eyes they are the mountains…

mono no aware ephemera

that we were promised: immutable.

But in word
they may as well be made of sugar.
They melt under their names
as under a hot running tap.

I could say nothing,
I should

give up singing these empty psalms,
hold your face tenderly between my hands
and turn it towards the view.


“Language” (excerpt)ย by J. Mark Beaver

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