Tip of the Tongue

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Any form of criticism is appreciated!

Submitted: July 26, 2017

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Submitted: July 26, 2017



It floats: a shape of silk in black liquor

And, taunting, waits for you to give it name.

By thrash, it lets you glimpse a tiny flicker;

By splash, you near can fix it in a frame.

You wish to catch and make it yours, but know

That first one hunts with only referent

For here reigns silence, top and all below,

Within, no sound can pinpoint what is meant.

So wade into those murky water-lands,

And try to grasp its slick and seamless form:

You’ll slip and fail; so strangle with your hands,

See it squirm, submit, expire, and transform.

Drag ashore that little word you sought;

Behind, you hear its parent swim uncaught.

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