The Word In Which The Wound

 

Signet, marker,

the mercurial upshot, blood spreading

and seized, the air my voice takes hold of, tongue

(now, always) wrestling forth —

do not thou strive in words —

but still in words it is achieved: communion, wedlock, the last invite
by which to please.

Summoned to conjoin,

to give it speech, the word of him

leans, furtive, away — the word of him not bound —

but (now, again) uttered,

thrown out, so that whatever remains,

this apprehension, the mouth's inevitable complaint (o forgive me),
is said, raised.