Verbalizer of finest thoughts,
A soft, vulnerable thumb of flesh
is rooted in the floor of a fetid red vestibule,
edged above and below the ingress
by crescents of ivory—rocklike cubes
clashing together, crushing, grinding.
And this flap of panicked muscle,
thrashing about, urging viands
between insentient millstones
is intimate with them by necessity,
quailing at their proximity,
striving as well as it can
not to be crushed or gashed itself.
No Benign Designer could be this barbarous,
And, yes, recently I bit my tongue.