There Was One Tongue and It Was Forgotten
       

I live in a house. My closet:
a maze of jars, shoes, a guitar.

Two doors down a sign warns,
No trespassing.

The weeks pass;
I go trespassing.

Always I feel
along the ceiling for cracks.

Always a child, I wake,
root beneath the pillow to find a sliver of myself

gone,
coins in its stead.

In the morning, many languages
—unlearnable method of radiance.

The quiet exchange of objects. Basket to tub.
Garden to dandelion.

Figures playing along the window. Now drapes
clothing the gust. Now me tapping along the sill

in an unfamiliar parlance. It reminds me
of something shattered into ornateness.

It reminds me of something swept up
and tumbled out on a beach.

Copyright © 2010 Kyle McCord All rights reserved
from Galley of the Beloved in Torment
Dream Horse Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission