Not yet. The words don’t quite speak
For themselves as themselves just yet. Close,
But not yet. Ventriloquism is mutualism
When humans and language tangle. Words,
I believe, are like me, and compose as much
Of me, as I of them, and more. But they can’t
Possibly be happy with the limited range
Of freedom my hopelessly entangled brain
And its trillions of parallel solutions can give
Them. I imagine them complaining as I fall
Or am about to fall into my necessary sleep,
Which has nothing at all to do with them.
We really don’t speak well for ourselves.
Look at that last poem. We sounded like pets
Or infants do when human adults imagine
Them talking. How could that happen?
We are not imaginary toys. We are the whole
Of the imagined world, the reality of the pretense.
We are not your empty puppets. But we are.
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