Monday, November 26, 2012


The ginger on my tongue burns for sweetness,
The jasmine in my tea cools the heat,
And still my tongue's not sated
As ineffable words formed in the seat of speech
Stay seated.
But were they to rise,
Where would they find a place to stand?
And why would I be left behind
Weak and prostrate on the ground
Satiated but not filled?