you're waiting for words from me. but a jazzed 

cat got my tongue. i consider and park them over

there and more cleanly ahead and away. your

eyes grow larger with prospect, a vacant weight.

it is in the recess that my elegance comes through,

the silence magnetic, in a way words cannot be.

my face feels your direction, awareness is of the

whiteness of wisdom in an even whiter cloud

from which i receive, retrieve. i taste it like the

communion it is. you gulp it down. i do not envy

you. and not your haste, which is piercing and hot.

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