Kismet

“What can be said can’t be said,

and can’t be whistled either.”

– Wittgenstein

Wittgenstein was wrong: when lovers kiss

they whistle into each other’s mouth

a truth old and sayable as the sun,

for flesh is palace, aurora borealis,

and the world is all subtraction in the end.

The world is all subtraction in the end,

yet, in a small vaulted room at the azimuth

of desire, even our awkward numbers sum.

Love’s syllogism only love can test.

But who would quarrel with its sprawling proof?

The daftest logic brings such sweet unrest.

Love speaks in tongues, its natural idiom.

Tingling, your lips drift down the xylophone

of my ribs, and I close my eyes and chime.