What Cannot be Measured

We know the weight of atoms,
of the planet Jupiter; 

the size of the Milky Way
of Walden Pond, a newborn baby, an olive. 

Maps are only useful due to scale
and Michelangelo — just another man without it.

So I ask myself,
how I can measure what I’ve heard? 

There is no way to gauge
the weight, the size, the scale of stories,

the number of tears shed,
the caterwauling cries at news of 

betrayal and neglect,
malignant conflicts and regrets, 

the agony of losses,
grief’s undertow;

hour to hour,
the stories of suffering.

 When I reach the limit
of what can be stored inside my body,

 I will leave as gently as I can,
pivoting toward another summons:

 to write, the flow of words
releasing what could not be measured.