"It's ten steps in and a hundred miles back out."
Language is what honors the vanishing.
Or is language what slows the leaving?
Or does it only deepen what we know of loss?
Inside us, constellations,
bit thread knotted into night’s black drape.
There are no right words,
if by right we mean perfect,
if by perfect we mean able to save us.
-From "The Failure of Language" by Jacqueline Berger