language is a fledgling (rough draft)

As if words
could tell of the river
and the sun
and the stickiness they left on my neck,

As if they could explain to you
the moisture that rises up
out of the earth by moonrise,
collecting in shroudlike pools above the dirt road
and making hazy the night field,
a tractor still plowing--

As if these scant lines
could trace like the wind's lips
against my hair,
or sing like country radio on a misty summer's eve,

My lungs take in their consonants
and blood rushes out their vowels.

As if the inadequacy of language
would stop me
trying to tell you anyway.