This winter... [Dead time]
spoken by the character Mick Delacroix from a play in progress
This winter weighed upon me a mighty scowl
and the blades of cold as they dipped and slivered
fingered deep pockets in the powerful day; and
found nothing, but damaged tongues frisking the air
for a sound to pull into shape the moment's character.
They say silence, with its mysteries, is character building:
anything but number, or clean onomatopoeia,
drips a largesse to rot the stems of haecsity upholding
this forest: our undiscovered home.
So... we live in a dump and this particular tongue
is sore from licking stars, sometimes forked
like the serpent's necessity, but mostly just bitten. sucks his teeth
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