Wednesday, 29 August 2012
on ears and lips, tongues.
I’m way-word-weary today,
longing for real language
lilting a runabout between all the dots,
making my way through soft, soggy rain.
The undomesticated have no words.
The butterfly’s page is the wild, wild world
lilting a runabout between all the dots.
I walk, leaving footprints, a muddy trail.
Language, not words.