Wittgenstein

The rotten tooth and drooling tongue
of the unspeakable
right-foot-knot-
knowing-what-the-left-does

for which Ludwig’s eyes barely can clap
as the worlds of Milton and Borges
walk away. For two days, he’s sat lost
over a rickety table, with only a well

of squid ink and what seems a porcupine’s quill,
squibbling ‘mad spherical cows,’ or whatever’s

the case at foot or hand
to the disputed sphere
of language through which
his Tractatus draws

to a stop, the way a wound unheeled might
stitch itself to a close but only by leaving a scar.