And the Globe Gleams As Well

There’s a moan past my ear.
The wind does talk to us,
You know, since we sense it,

The way our words are lost
To the wind, since they mean
Not a thing to not us,

And most of them don’t mean
A thing to most of us.
They’re still words. It’s still talk.

It’s all us, all of speech,
Each thing that means a thing,
With one, weird, soul not ours

The words’. And then I think,
As more breeze blows by me
And sighs for lack of terms,

It’s not all us. What’s us,
Most of what’s us, as much
Signs as the sighs of wind,

Our lungs and hands, our mouths,
Our eyes and tongues. Cows’ spit
Streamed from cud-fueled tank guts.

The names of us that speak
Mean what they mean, and not
What we lowed as winds moaned.