REINCARNATION OF THE DEAD WORDS

The typewriter.
King of the ******* tip.

Having an alphabet
to command

an army of words
but someone pulled its teeth.

Extracted its speech.
Defeat.

At my feet metal letters
lay strewn

saying:
nothing.

K  IL trampled
into the *******.

A ?
drowning in muck.

An !
crying out for help.

An angry "e"
still raising a tiny fist

in rusted defiance
against the vastness

of an evening
sky.

I scoop up as many metal letters
as I can find

rooting in the refuse
for a precious "i".

An 'i' that is not to be
found.

Was this the revenge
of a failed writer

or an outdoor
art installation

in the private gallery
of a ******* tip.

WAITING FOR GOD...
knows who?

The snipped/snapped-
-off-letters

refugees now
in my pocket.

I am their home.

I bury them
under an apple tree.

They rise through the roots
bearing fruit

year after year

I eat the words
they give me.

Speech flowering
upon my tongue.