Tactiurn Tongues

A fireplace is hardly consistent,
for its guests hardly
make it on time
at the same time.

These dancing tongues,
they flail,
fly, flaunt faithfully.
These dancing prawns,
so scared
of running out of time,
of running out of air.

Its leaders,
the pack ever-seeing,
pioneer the new vertical,
categorical milestones.
They show its compatriots
paths in shifting sands,
lights -- a shining mirage,
an imposter heat source,
all so these pretty
stupid tongues
flock aimlessly.

It's this dance
that entices me so
to think of how even with scattered splinters
within our bones,
all of us,
unanimously,
provide a source of heat
for our single, eternal
humanity.


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