Dispatch #159

the inexpressible

After Wittgenstein


	A contrail divides the skyline 
wrinkled with heat. Flies circle trash—
	clear plastic—at the seam 
between brick path and lawn.
	Hours atrophy.

	There is the inexpressible 
but it doesn’t show itself
	today. It doesn’t 
show itself in summer.

	Even shade as it erases 
radiates.