we say the knife is dead,
                  or the mouth of the knife is dead
            because the death of the mouth is the death
          of purpose, or the death of the potency of life
        plumbed in the metric noesis inside its tongue.
      what we believe— a destiny must sing its course,
  regardless. the fire too, must burn its yoke of oxygen.
where I come from, the mouth is also a lethal weapon.
      where I come from, you cannot hush the gong
        of its pealing, unless the gong is not a gong.
      whatever silence the knife has learned in exile
      is self-taught in unused. so go ahead, my soul,
        follow the ancient achiever’s path, sharpen all
                  the knives the Blacksmith sheathed
                under your skins. sing, Spirit, through
                      the dreams, speak the harvest
                    through these efforts, & cut all
                        my fantasies to testimonies.