to think back—
which language
did you speak
when there was still passion
on your breath?
Did that passion
leave a sign?—some distinctive
color, or a signature
stink? And did those words
you once rattled
in your prime
or dashed off
onto ream upon ream
of cheap office paper
really mine
the untold depths of what
you'd dreamed
in your most
exuberant philosophies?
Or did they merely
have to look nice, take up X
amount of space,
and rhyme?
