The origin of every book is loss.
There is not a word
in the beginning
and language always listens
to its end. Tell me
what has left its mark
upon the names you give to stars
you cannot see
and I will try to break the sentence
strange enough to trust.
Look, the world is blue as death
down here already. The air is poisoned
by our breath. It is getting difficult to teach our children
how to speak by speaking
Copyright © 2022 by Nicholas Gulig. This poem appeared in Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts & Letters, Fall 2022. Used with permission of the author.