Let me tell you this once

    （I will not be able to say it again）：

    I have lost the meaning of words.

    Heavy， they ripped away from the sounds，

    fell into cracked ground. For weeks

    I scratched but what I dug up was

    bicycle spokes¹， black melon rinds，

    a smashed doll face——it was not meaning.

    I don't know what I am saying.

    I exaggerate. Not everything is gone.

    I still know perfectly² what sugar means，

    and pine needle. Laughter is more

    of a problem. And yellow often slides，

    a plate of butter in the sun.

    The meaning of flower has gone entirely³；

    so has the meaning of love. Now it is safe

    to say： I love you. Now it is true