Where do they go,
these herds
these legions of words
I line up and file down
each night as I lie
unsleeping?
Words I dare not whisper
but to mist a mirror
softly clouding the glass;
dare not utter, only mutter
from a cliff-top over crashing seas.
Past their prime,
their moment of meaning in time,
they sink down deep
beyond often-dredged depths
to join the fining
that lines the mind's floor.
And when I sleep, lay down my head,
pull up the quilt
I dream of excavations
in the silt.