Ceci n’est pas Snubsta

After Magritte

Where do we put the things
that don’t have names, which cannot start
with A or Z, or sit on this shelf
or in this bin? How do we think
about the feelings we know
but won’t describe; when words
are faint and point askew?
How can we talk about truths
we can only sense?
Is silence perhaps
the only sound we have?