At a recent conference,
Where speakers with forked tongues
Had been invited,
I found that the insides of my mouth,
Wrapped with a silence of a burning incense
And dotted with unanswered letters.
A fellow speaker, taking pity on me,
Offered me an ingenious medicine.
I gulped down a torn memoir of his grandmother
Rinsed my mouth with a Parisian Evening.
My tongue, like a child on his
First day at school,
Still didn’t know what to do.
On its tip, lay a group of unruly poems.
Like standing at the edge of a cliff
They peered down to see
Where they would land
If they took off.
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