Moving Parts: a poem

An asymptote has too many sounds
crammed into the shallow closet of the mouth.
It unspools under the tongue
like spider silk threads caking
the gums and gumming
up the throat like
caulking paste seeping, seeping, seeping.

I approach the limit closer
and closer, creeping, trickling, one
promise at a time. But the limit
is a cliff of eyes
a dragon with a song and a
face. I promise myself I’ll do it
this time. I’ll remove
my skin and stand
in the light.

But instead, I split at the center and veer
off at the last
moment careening
up
into the sky and
down
into the dirt.