Words Are Tactile Until They Exit the Mouth
First you move. Fall asleep to a street
dull with elms and old-fashioneds; wake up
new to a live wire hemmed sky. No one
to tell this to. And under all charged utterance
stands a sign that’s read the same damn thing
for years. No relic hunting as though static
imperatives are enough to cling to.
What shroud or knucklebone do they think
you’ll exhume? How pleas become
isms? Habits whittle, carve in
records of sounds that bound us.
Remember how to pick a word up, glutton-eyed
and unravel. Remember how ecstasy starts
in the palms. Remember who
you are. Yourself, this year.
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