with me as the single tongue inside it,
slow to gather strength, to touch the wall
that turned at once into a door, a ghost
tongue scattered over the world as music.
But that was then. I am so much more
mindful now, and I wonder as I drink
my morning black, is there a plural for
the unconscious, as there is for heaven
though we rarely use it. The sun rises.
And we follow, the bronze in our veins
unheard by others, though our tower cries
out with words it cannot understand
alone, each death toll woven, one to one.