in between

new-baby

 

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)

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