I am the least agent of culture, the abetting eye, the animal agape. Mostly fury with only that brief tepid spurting of sound, the steam of lung and spirit. I sweat through each touch, worry away every intimacy with my endless questions. Always that breathless command, that sudden wall upon all your possibilities. The word, barely aimed, ringing true.
So goes the burden of speaking, the attempt to make a consensus of meaning and granting it that crown. The last spattering of hesitance forever gone, once the chanting starts. Where the heart of prayer is squarely kissed, chosen for the grazing of the lips. Where the grasping only ends in by quick consensus of said and done. Omission and commission become one and the same.
Let the trumpets sound, let the fireworks stream--! Every sense gets their say, every meaning strays from its error given enough time. Bend and stretch, touch and taste, I am awash in variations. Take all the time, then make some more. The word will wait out all your endings. The world will begin with this shape.