The Movement of the Mouth

And to think the word that left us
Was ever our own, ever ours, it becomes.

Words grip the iron teeth

What mawkish
We caress,
Projecting enmity
On false enemies.

The movement of the mouth
Makes no ideas
But the air speaks
To shut us up.

My breath
Smudged in writing
Lies dying
On a paper

And of this Dwindling
Fluid in escape,
Evaporating into the
Wind of our breath,
The breath of our word,
A word is not yet spoken,
For it forever dwindles.