malaprop

The word itself becomes the echo, painted upon such bated breath. Comprehension left to the shape of shallow tracks, harder than running in the dunes. Nothing to grant purchase, save a vague trail of history. Mystery birthed the moment you opened your mouth.

I am always a little unsteady, slipping between phrasings, abruptly leaving the sad sustain. I try not to confess my confusion aloud lest it hears me. It is one of hose things that ends up looking right in your eyes, seeing you as meals and parcels. It is probably best not to think too long outside your lines. The mirror was there before the glass, the reflection lurking in every flesh.

It might be that I misspoke. The poem is always riddled with teeth. These brief suspensions, the rush of blood at last. So much pent for so long that it rushes out too fast, the stress upon the strings such a sweet relief that the sense comes a little late. I speak in stains and furies, spit wounds and bolts of blue. The reach always exceeds, the measure spent and still something is missed. I say it anyway, wrong and wrong again.