The Way We Don’t Rhyme

And maybe it is a foreign language, maybe I was abandoned in this spot without such tools, such conveniances stashed in my luggage

and maybe it is a strange tongue, not mine, not rolling around in my mouth to come out as polished marbles
so I pray with my lips shut
in silence deemed irreverent to the sacred space held for metre and the rise and fall of kingdoms of melodic articulation

kneeling at the altar of shards
and rising to stand as
I build myself into a tower of images, of unspoken wordy height and touching liminality in more dimensions than a tongue could squeeze between two lips and two breaths,

no rhymes to a reason hidden from
an ear to the ground,
approaching infinity in the collapse of the tower, and finally, noise

but I am long gone to another metaphor, hiding under the table on which knowdledge is served in the shape of gold-dusted fruit;
hiding I lick my fingers after touching them all and dreaming of rearranging them into
run-on sentences stacked into paragraphs, pyramids balancing tension and beauty
and yet
you ask for another tower, but with
a sounding bell and a song

and I leave in a fade of thunder