THE NEXT SENTENCE

In a cage, languagein the tongue-form becomesunknowably stillas the bird in doubt.The swallow brings a tastejust short of the void, and tonguelike a moon movesa wave of no language.Such a small and superstitious muscle—large enough to know itselfwell enough in reticence.A precipice of language,the tongue is the gatekeptshadow of the thought.A precipice of language,over which the substanceof the self gathers force,tongue is lifted into actionby the swallowof an idea into time.Tongue resists the deathof vocabulary before whichit elects the companionshipof certain words.And tongue travels from oneside of the red canyon to the other;silence between, but a voice—distinctive as the colour of sand—moves among her shades of grey: tree-rootsof once-moonlight, risingin the daylit soil ofthe next sentence.