Tongue
It moves in him, strong as seizure
but soft, the glottal convulsions.
Out of the mind’s muscle,
words rise to be spat
the story inside him
struggling to eat its way out.
That’s not what I meant
Words are full of holes, glaring, glaring.
In the cool cave of thought
his twisted root leads backwards and forwards
along the slippery streets
between teeth and lips.
No comments:
Post a Comment