I was late to speak
Later still to learn
there's a language underneath our own,
writhing with everything beautiful,
everything we are afraid of.
That nothing worth reading fast
is worth reading.
Except, perhaps, warning signs and
Though the newspapers are getting louder, like someone realized they take more batteries than we've been giving them.
And the world too, is loud: learning to drown itself
in its quagmire of keens or ebullient shrieks.
It is not a baptism, but the world lowering itself deeper and deeper
into the swamp water.
I imagine we must be the Raft of the Medusa.
Not the people on it who turned to eating each other,
but the raft itself.
A liquid weave of our bodies, all clambering over each other toward a surface we are slowly pushing, pressing downwards.
We sink together.
Slowly we enter the bloodstream of sentences, veins of words,
the soul of language: the undiscovered country from which we fish
our voice and our worst nightmares, indiscriminately.
There is also a tiny triangle, watching us, from the distance.
if we are lucky,
it will save us.