Glossolalia

I reviewed the ranks in order from first to last,

dismissing the ones I felt were uncouth.

I sent them on a mission to reclaim my past,

to emboss the lost glossolalia of youth.

I let them go but they never came home –

truant wanderers in the mind’s failed falconry.

Why should they have remained, when all I did was moan?

“OK, mountains: fall! Just don’t fall on me!”

Then he returned, made off with all the best timber,

plundered every new chamber, removed all the strings.

I’d forgotten about him all winter.

Now he fills up my shadow with alien things.

My genie, my familiar, who slurps as he goes,

immersing my cup in the murky flows,

imbibing the lost visceralia of Spring.

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