hunched inside me, mumbling, ails an old poet. shyly he crouches at the soft joining of my throat and mouth, bruised by the shriek of thoughts scurrying up my throat, and with shame recoiling at their clumsiness. if you would only touch, my dear, i once pleaded him, and with your weary finger knead the clamoring into a ballet, you would no longer need to hide in revulsion — but as in answer he crawled to the tip of my tongue, he tumbled backwards in terror at your ineffable touch
