Reblogged from The Paris Review
And still there is no season’s story told
by words, expressive, eager to explain;
no winter’s tale will pass from mouth to mind;
only the sleepy, sensual touch is shared—and pain.
Perhaps some other language can be found;
our lexicon from birth is vague and thin:
The metaphor, the smile or bitter scowl—
these are not sharp enough to break the skin.
Though gaze or gesture, silences or song
cling to the memory like a summer cold,
they cannot tell us love is right or wrong.
Desire and blindness guide us: we are old.
—Daniel Stern, “Excommunication”
Photography Credit Curran Hatleberg
