The Word                                                          

            There are dreams
            Behind every abstract noun –
            No, multitudes of them –
            Clamouring and bustling and jostling elbows
            To push past and singly squeak into the narrow cleft
            Created by the word
            Only to disappear, hauled down
            By the competitors who scramble up
            To take their place,
            Etcetera . . .
            And so it goes for verbs,
            Though much more complicated,
            Involving as they do unspoken
            Nouns of every stripe and
            Hue of specificity
            And as for adverbs, adjectives and even
            Participles, every smallest bit,
            Each throwaway –
            The least sound sounded or unheard –
            Conceals the legions
            Sweltering of hope,
            All massed
            With just one end in sight,
            One purpose
            Under the disguise of
            Elaborate operatic fugues and
            To keep us poised
            And reaching
            On the seas of hubris
            So a tear or two
            Between us, darling,
            Shouldn’t count so much
            However many countless dreams
            Lie crystallised upon a cheek,
            Bones gleaming indiscreetly on a
            Desert mountainside
            Relics, not museum pieces
            Much relief, at least,
            From mouthing


            Emanuel E. García, Sinking In, One Hundred Poems2013