My every original thought is a picture
The words I say are pegged onto them
like wet washing on a drying christmas tree.
The words are cold and dead, post mortem!
The vital passions of the idea long faded
by the time they spill from my lips into your ears.
And even a good thought, a pure thought,
even the best thoughs, can fall to the ground
and be muddied and loathed, stepped on and forgotten.
Even my hands can do better