Tilt

Paul talked in tongues.
He spoke their English translations.

No one was on the mountain to hear him.

He heard himself
but ignored what he heard.

The wild’s animals did not care either way.

He applied gravity to stream of consciousness
and hoped to empty his brain.

He announced each leaf’s name individually.

He noticed which trees were mated
and the rooted connection of the aspen grove.

Paul reasoned the thinner air let words fall quicker.

He was loud when loud was not required
to warn animals of his smelly presence.

A gibbous moon ascended.

He committed to talking through the night
clenching and unclenching a fist with each spoken word.

He surrendered to pine-needle sleep around two.

His tongue was not so tired from this effort
that it fell out of his mouth.

copyright © 2022 Kenneth P. Gurney

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