The Sound of a Broom Swept by a Ghost

A strange voice for a bare floor,
There’s a word loose in your head—

Could be more than one, could be
A whole, dried tongue cut from dead

Flesh of a time when the words
Were slaves to tasks so long gone

You’re not sure what it might mean
If you heard them yoke yon kine.

No one doubts words live the lives
Of tools and, like tools, lose use,

Lie in dust, gyves, banes, clews, clouts,
Get sold for junk or tossed out.

But tools can’t mean on their own.
One broom’s sough still fills the room.