He pinched my tongue
between his thumb and fore finger
and with a good yank
dislocated it from the base of my spine,
and slid it out my mouth.

He said, "if you're not going
to use this, then I will."
He draped my tongue
over his shoulders
and it took on new life,
hissing and slithering
like the viper of redemption.

Now, I look inside myself,
and all I see is a hillside
bleeding fire. The best
I can do is scribble down
a few words about that breathless voice.

The secret is not selective,
but it is destructive.
Familiarity with eternity
breeds annihilation,
so I hop around
from anonymity to anonymity
no longer cherishing
the days I claimed, "I am."