There is a place where
words fit comfortably
like a thumb returning
to a worry bead or
river glass, handled
until it forgets its edges.

Words mark their borders
and call it understanding.
I send them out not as letters
but as signals, so what I want
and what I say are the same.
Phrases that fall into grooves
worn down by recitation.

No one can explain
in the hearing of it,
rough edges smoothing
like a pacifier
for an infant and still
the sentence leans forward,
asking to be carried farther,
still something in me
keeps making sense of it.