Wittgenstein's poker

proud edifice of language built on sand
presumes that there's an Other who will read
or one, at least, who's apt to understand
the thoughts to which our words intend to lead
that tongues can sketch what could not ever be
seems not to bother ordinary folks
who trust your qualia and mine agree
the ambiguities, they use for jokes
like ants constructing tunnels, we persist
as if mere speech could ever make it clear
compulsively, we're each a Sisyphus
portraying to the void the world in here
each solipsist constructs a universe
from blocks as apt to bless as they're to curse