
My words, indifferent as a gray tortoise,
remind me of an old woman
smoking tobacco by the window.
My words are as invisible
as the old kitchen rag
I use to wipe the grease off the cages.
My words are clumsy
as a frog saturated with mud
wishing to hibernate.
My words have the deliberate solitude of lizards,
their tongues unfold like a royal carpet
straining to hear the inward music
of distant saxophones.
I come in and find abundant thick hairs,
droppings, and tangerine peels,
a familiar scent fills my nostrils.
My words have escaped.
I'm too tired or too wound up
to go after them.