In the turning emerges new word,
And with this word– fresh tongue that tastes of clove.
One that speaks softer than the one before it.
A language overlaps, like cumulonimbus.
But with this…
A need to grasp.
In the turning you hold your name.
It isn’t worth much more than the voice who speaks it.
The way it rolls off a lip and,
Sounds when it is spoken in your ear.
He loves it more than the one before, and he carries it proudly.
In the turning we look away.
We don’t catch one another’s eyes in passing.
Instead pretending not to notice, and ignore these pages that are burning.
As the paper yellows,
The writing fades.
Yet, in the turning a heart still pounds.
As the finger still tries to say what the mouth cannot.
In the turning…