Sometimes they make themselves--
form each other in the pit of my stomach
rise
through my cardiac sphincter
and up my esophagus
and spit out my mouth
with little ‘language of origin’
and ‘part of speech’ and ‘pronunciation’
flags trailing behind.
But other times they stay coiled
into each other
tangled and snarled like, shall we say,
an orgy of snakes, or possibly
the hair of a child, or even
a fly (Musca domestica) in a spider’s silk.
And those are the times
I wish they would flow…
(partially because they give
me indigestion and partially
because when they brew
like that they tend to erupt)
…flow like a mountain stream
ribbons tied to a fan
coffee conversation
like notes from those strings
like birdcalls weaving
pieces of sunlight into the forest.
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