Poem: A Conjecture

A Conjecture
                           -For G. Pardlo

The part that calls itself by a name,
that calls itself a self at all,
it always knows in words,
turns experience to language.
It cannot be at all
if it is not that way.
It is an act of language,
to be as a being
is an act of language.
It is what I believe,
is the sensible answer.
There are questions,
and proof is an absurdity,
but I find nothing my mind knows
that is not bound in words within me.

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