My tongue is soft and flaccid against my cheek

Soft, idealistic worm rises to give form to dream images, narrowly conceived notions

From bed of flesh to consciousness the creep rises

I am in love with a man who does not like the word, so my tongue is still

I do not love a man who covets the word, and so I oblige with wagging

My heart is a cheater, mind drifts in the fog of choices

Yet the craving of my tongue is for one man – the stoic, the scholar