A soft, vulnerable thumb of flesh,
used to make verbal the finest thoughts,
is rooted in the floor of a fetid red vestibule,
edged from ingress by crescents of ivory—
rocklike cubes clashing together, crushing. grinding.
And this flopping flap of panicked muscle
must thrash about, urging viands
between those insentient millstones
intimate with them by necessity,
but quailing at their touch,
striving as well as it can
not to be crushed or gashed itself.
No benign designer could be this savage,
And, yes, recently I bit my tongue,