his thin mouth,
roll right past his tongue.
Then flitter all about
till the pearls are strung.

They fly verbose,
heavy as a jet.
Flat lines of prose.
Some pose a threat.

I see them on paper.
Hear them in the shower,
hanging there as vapor.
Not a drop that I can scour.

They don't match
his deeds.
The egg doesn't hatch.
internally it bleeds.