*Critical foundations of the word*

We were the swollen trail,
polluted and sullen,
forging rivers with fake names.
We feasted
with the fallen – better known
as the ninth committee to the board.

No one got bored
because we lifted each other
into our mouths
bending on the rocks.

And the question that day was:

If first there was the word
and the first word was the word
was the first word the “word” or
was it some wholly other word?

Was the first word even
the first word? It would be odd
but what if the first word wasn’t
even a word? Or what if
the first word was originally the last?

If so, what was it?

The day was long and we grew
thirsty but shrank when they turned
the water into sand.

And how it sparkled
in our holes
when they called it “words”
to put us in our place.

But where we were was hardly a place,
and what we were was hardly at all – still
and winded on the sun-soaked rocks.