When he was young,
he was broken and tired
with words constantly swallowed.
they'd crunch and snap in half - those
sharp consonants.
The vowels were another thing
altogether. Their soft flow
down his throat filled his stomach,
right up to the top until.......
he gave them up fantastically.
Presently, the words assemble on the
page, stacked in neat rows.
row after row after row.
But the white ice of paper
and coal of ink
do not
emote.
For by the face connections construct themselves.
So now, he is not broken
but he will break again.