At some point
our language turns on two wheels,
or is relied on only, or junked -
much the same.
We might lose a bit of what it is made of,
ignore the well-oiled machine,
expect to will it to get us places:
most of us do, but not all,
even if only some of the time;

and as silence becomes sticky and foul
the machine powers down, we must talk,
most then breathe easy,
wax meanings they express,
we allow.



�2005 by John Eivaz