If only you knew
the intensity of this wait
time has an abnormally short reach
I am conscious of every stub of hair
busting through my cheeks
these organs pulsating madly
fiercely
I hear my voice as a public declamation
and I know that I am
lying
if only I could find the right word
that tames the turbulent static
begin pouring soft flora
down my throat
the prayer is a form of evaporation
its crushing plenitude
opens up a region
for me to forget
my bearings
in the simultaneous act
of being keyhole and
spy.
Beyond Language 