We hear together the tiny utterance
of the word as it settles like dust
on a creaking algorithm. A script
damned & fist-drawn in winter,
coaxed by our tongues into pale
sunlight; and we know that this
message, now parceled at our feet,
was once the explosion
in the back of a Grecian cerebrum.
As the tide of lyric swells,
we sit: two bloated worms
floating happy in a rain puddle—
because if this certain treasure
[a word]
can flutter down and so root
in our ears, are we really bound
by your temporal advances
any longer?
