But why are there all these words?
We swim in them, blue with cold.
We don’t know how blue with cold
Means. Oh, we know things. The brain,
The length of the waves we call
Our skin (not the same, no two
Quite the same) and of the waves
We call blue—but not how blue
Works as both the name and hue
And all the things linked to those,
The way in an, the old sign
Pressed in clay with reeds and baked,
The four marks turn to one wheel
That meant sky and the sound an,
And looked a bit like a star,
A cold star of lines in brick.
Once you live with this, can you
Not be trapped in it? For what?
How could cold words mean good stuff?
