My surfeit of speech
Has been for others
Even the self-referential
Has its flight by wind —
Purblind
In bat-like night
It‘s what we do each day
We who‘ve dared
to shape meaning like clay
As though it could be flesh —
Hubris
To warm one forever
And now I have no words
But those whose sound
I put on paper —
Unspoken
Beyond me.