What is not near the world of names,
What will not be in count nor code,
Can’t be found in a poem, of course,
And can’t be found at all, in that
For you to find it would fix it
And—since you could not find the terms,
Words, codes straight to it—to draw
Lines of names and counts all round it.
We don’t say it is. We can’t say.
You can’t say it through us. You can’t
Point at it, pray to it, dream it.
Those are things that you know, you’ve seen,
That you point to, dream of, and say,
That’s a thing past all words and dreams.
Those are just more games in the game,
This side of the bounds of all games,
That you robe as Not Game to play.
We can come this close. There could be
A range in the world of what is
That is but not part of the game.
There could be. But we are our game,
And in our game, and if we play
At what’s not a part of our game,
We just play with parts of our game
To say they can play the Not Game.
Which they can’t. Which you can’t. But sure,
Move the sums back and forth, name gods,
Point at what there are no words for.
Make up weird terms that make no sense.
Dance and stamp by the fire. Take drugs.
Strain. If there is a thing past names,
It will not be those things you reach.
