after silence

o moon, ever so cryptic,
as if propped on carbon paper –
have we lost the originals?

i think i know why poets look up to you,
and that is because even in your solitude
you illuminate us.

with the tip of the index finger
to the tongue and then turn the page;

we've got ink on our hands –
but what if we just said it

instead of highlighting it
instead of describing it
instead of defining it

instead of repeating it
instead of translating it
instead of explaining it

instead of poetry –

why can't we just say it?