What is ineffable?

Salt nights we try to become landscapes. Each 
Night absolutely material. Devote our lives to it. 

And how, after altars, must the sun pass 
Over— babbling flare of outline, definition? 
Remember raisin. 
Remember gasoline, sore feet in the plaza.
Spanish air. These too are concepts.

At what moment did the concept cast its grand illusion? 
That gargantuan colonial breath, Socratic 
Capture? Every in-thistle, every remember haunted 
By how many numbers of those theses?

Was it then? Soon?

Two facts of relation. As landscapes
We shake away that glacial boundary
Dividing I, you. No need for that
Anymore. No outside, either, and no reach
For what’s beneath or beside each body.
(The ocean with knowledge is empire.)

As landscapes we rid ourselves of every idea.
There is the trembling floor, there is
Gravel, incense, loud, loud, loud music.
There are shapes at both ends. But already,
There, we are at the source of the phenomenon.
Refusing to be in the painting with everything.
Such is the purity of your pocket.

Salt nights we have already lost the ineffable. 
Brief taste, stellar concessions always apart 
And pulling. We have already lost the ineffable 
When we look out into buzzing medallions 
Of the parking-lot light and say,
“How I wish we could talk about 
It…” 	THERE!   It has taken its seat at the end 
Of the phrase. And how else? 

Silence  is  the
least forgivable
sin,     so long 
as it cannot be 
confessed . . .