I am told they say the language
is always already there waiting
to speak to hear to wallow in
like in omphalos blood coated
before the nascent cry cuts
sharply through the thick air
I have lost my metaphor
which becomes my metaphor
absence replaces other semblance
I suppose one cannot escape
language’s chains as they rattle
like bones in a cup the words
we speak in guarded greeting
each morning each to each
(March 23, 2018)
subtext 