Author, stand behind your work, not
in front of, or above. Directing traffic is
for cops—lording over, for small gods.
Language is the tongue of universal
man: lisps, stutters, dialects and drawls
are the click of a grasshopper’s legs,
and he clears entire fields, singing.
Be wary of the language of contempt,
though it be succulent and swift to draw
admirers. Cockfighters in round collars
lobby too against cruelty to animals.
Only the mute are permitted to rest
their uvulations, and yet they elocute
with gesture and abandon. Were you
not born with a thousand fiery tongues?
out in the rain
the contents of
of wet blankets
© Elaine Stirling, 2012