i have a tongue that revolts
beds into silence and steeps
above a heart that succeeds
but there is a penitent pennant
fluttering like a guttering shadow
pinned to a waning waxy pinnacle
i know something is skewered in me
skewed by an approaching timidity
fear given another name and dressed in petals
the deadly nightshade
believes itself a rose
dark orbs staring
this is a foreign country
and i speak a different language
though it echoes and can be mistaken for
do you worry?
do you hurry?
do you tarry?
do you wonder where your steps falter?
this spiraling stairwell
at the halfway mark
the pole, the spine
and i say nothing