His speech must be hard work: filing down
the sharp edges of words, gluing them end to end
into a necklace of soft smooth beads.
The rest of us jerk
through our sentences: start and stop
like a student driver. Our syllables
drop from our mouths like building blocks.
When he speaks,
I watch the changing window of his lips for the secret:
something foreign and gooey,
or perhaps a tongue so large it crowds
the entire cave of his mouth,
but the lips never open more than a sliver: flashing pink
landscape, fluid and curvy soft: a perfect place for hiding things.
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