The Word

The Word tried to get in edgeways
but put on weight.
The Word had shown up on X-Rays
but far too late.
The Word was breath -
then, death.

The Word was out, the Word was getting round
and yet stood still,
without meaning, without even sound,
since Word was will
that had not yet found form.
The Word was storm.

The Word was dropped, lay where it fell,
no one picked it up
but still it learned to spell.
Word flowed into the cup
that runneth over even in a drouth.
Word was open mouth.

Now I am lost for words
that open mouths spill out.
What sense comes afterwards?
Sense coupled with doubt.
If I had the power to say it, I would say it.
Here’s the instrument, says voice.
Now play it.

By George Szirtes from his website