Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must remain silent. --Wittgenstein

These are the things you think you said.
It’s just that I have no way of knowing
what to tell you. I fill you full
of roots and prefixes, signifiers and
the dialectic, and still, my company mixes
with the party. I won’t tow the line
though. Better the diagnoses than these
prescriptions. Herein, my drink remains
displaced. She ambles along in
her careful constructions. Against
the wall, she overlaps her shadow upright.
The table over there boasts refreshments.
When I say “I am of” does that follow
with “good riddance”? The end of man
often lies at hand, but whereof can one
not speak? It is on the table; it is in my grasp;
it has soaked into the carpet. As a woman,
my permission opens me aimlessly:
I move my mouth and walk therein.