The Search For Language

words need to be found for this grief.
I've searched books.
the pages contain codes
that I do not understand.
prose is no easier than poetry,
neither one can give me the words. 
I consider images. 
an empty bed. 
keepsakes. 
the yard after it rains. 
birds, dark and wailing,
flying against an
intractable blueness.
images do not exist. 
metaphor serves no purpose.
this is real.
this is beyond your definitions.