word again – the broken word;
deep in the stomach it sits
and is afraid:
so little has it been out in the open,
and it will look shabby and disoriented when it surfaces.
it creeps up into brain, eyes and hands
and makes the passages tremble,
stirs the memory of tears behind the eyes,
shakes the hands,
but only inside
and word thinks,
what if –
what if i’m a volcano?
and it asks,
what if –
what if i’m a song?
as it sticks to and disappears in the roof of the mouth
like a voice hurled into the empty space of a church deserted by its believers
but word cannot, would not help it,
word zigzags its sounds, its thoughts, its pictures through
the huge cave of a human being
– is it more than a fly in a glass, captured?
word cannot, would not care because word
zigzag, stagger, roam
endlessly it seems, and without aim;
yes – it is a fly captured, a moth drunk with artificial light,
a bird lost in a human house,
and it must
word needs contact with air,
it must breathe, fly, multiply and decay,
it must oxidize, must gather rust, it must rot,
it must become compost.
it must turn stones into water.
word: a feeble worm in the pit of a soul
must uncoil, make its way
into the world
and turn stones into water.
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