I shall speak with sugar on my tongue;
a cube held at the apex, surrounded by
a snow-drift of fine grains;
and, holding carefully the saccharine gift,
I shall stand and face away from the woods,
(lush and water-heavy, though they may be)
turning my mouth to the water
the mighty lake, like a leviathan's tomb
calm and shining lovely.
In the stark of the morn
as the herons unfold their matchstick bodies
my throat shall vibrate, my larynx clog with sound
and this sonorous note, this crystal-euphony,
shall only be broken by the lake;
I drag it up and take it into my mouth;
my trachea gives its own strained wail,
becoming turgid as water washes into my lungs.
That sugar cube from before will hit the roof,
then slide backwards to my esophagus,
where it will not dissolve until my eyes
moss over.