Every day I find a handful of new ways to pronounce
the same words. Standing and reflecting, my brain echoes
leftover letters and sentences and pieces of talk-talk.
Every day I find new words for concepts
about concepts which I treasure, the substances
of an outspoken, soft-spoken universe of texts.
It all returns. Like a bell toll, my mind announces
itself. Every morning I find new songs stuck
at the back of my throat, whispers of reverberations,
whispers of fading whispers, whispers of whispers of whispers.
I repeat myself. I repeat myself.
Every sound has a double, triple, multiple version of an original
Indo-European root, fermented soil. My songs are trees.
Like free-flowing moss, my world is covered
by a reverent layer of speech. To speak is to sing is to grab all the odd bits.
Languages are never original, languages proliferate.
They circle the globe. My words migrate.
