The words catch in your lengthy trunk.
The words catch in the bulbous
end of things.
The words catch in ears immense,
“We die, we will die, we are dying.”
You are the snake in fertile fields.
You are pressed lips in company,
breath stopped mid-kiss,
your silent mouth spits,
time is all, time means nothing.
The cobwebs we wrap around our eyes,
a mask, a shield, a sticky trap,
an ancient slow poison, its
tendrils curve around our sight.
We choose blindness before the end.
The pumping of our hearts, we know
we do not determine the cadence.
The beat is its own drum.
There is a bullet hidden
in this noisy toy.
The words catch in the stroke of throat.
The words catch at the tip of ancient tusk.
The words catch in eyes tear dewed.
They catch the scattered years,
barren years, wombed in silence.