Speak at This
In a clear chromosomal light of sudden sight,
the tongue becomes an unlikely weight.
There are hours when words will not come, in grief or joy, or in the startled whirlwind when we don’t trust any love.
Not nothing now, some silence attests what more, what noun does not do. That is to say, syllables coordinate vanishing in the ledger of lost chances. Try this: If an apple, then exile; a pomegranate? Then wintering descent;
a glance backward, and the pupils of the eyes become a banishment.
What Echo said was a name not worth repeating.
And thus a beautiful daughter slides her thumb along her lower lip.
It blooms, it shatters.