The count is lost.
That’s how it goes
With tongues
That shift each day,
Like this one, loose
In our wide mouths.
We’re all shades now
Who speak its shapes.
The sense can boast
A while, at least,
But it grows numbed,
And then the tongues,
Words young and old.
The day will come
When sense is all
And all are dumb.
Thursday, February 11, 2021
The Sense Can Boast
