Sunk deep in your irises

lies the tooth of language.

Each blink a palpable faint

resemblance from my own.

Alphabets ring in your ears

because my tongue is a sole

avenue. It is the eye and the

mouth that, after all, performs.

Deep, below the heritage belt.

Wrists form cycles. Motions of

the song that never left. If you

just gape open, a little more.

You will find me in the hearth.

There I am, in the crumbles

of thirst. After all, if you no

longer speak of the syllables

that birthed me, what am I

if not an image that passes, never

again a spoken phrase, a word

that matters, causes.