tilling

under soul soil until the word-fresh odour yields

until the language of nothing snaps back

the gifts of language-mind return,

recoil, the subtext shimmers across my scanning pupils and

i can also sieve the sylllables with whole fingers spread.

 

listening to the words that humans speak, that are projected around me

bus billboard brakes.  ping down through the tilling mind to reinforce the pitch and tone, the meaning.

scribed on the mirror.  serpent through days.  

 

words remain, and are always gone.  and circle around the inside skull, wondering if, what was meant, why say that?  then?  why that, this, what does that mean?  mind is geared this way, and also looks underneath for the understudy.  the undersoil, underside, fish guts of resonance and space.

 

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