There’s nothing to be said.
I’ve seen your kinds of words before,
cross-eyed and fathom-struck.
Never reach the surface right,
guess the pressure must trouble them greatly,
a-fussin’ and a-frettin’,
a-squeezin’ and a-worryin’.
When they leave your lips can barely tell
what they really mean;
shape twisted and crushed
into subtle semblances of desire
and purpose.