Ever scanter, these micro-utterances,
they are so lily-like, like lilacs.
Or so, for me, for whom
differences slice evenly thin
in strand-like slivers,
filaments joining components
with silky, wispy prescience,
bringing half-exposed shoulders to lips
licking or tricking. (Take your pick.)

Bnaughty. Bsilvery.
Timlier too;
undone from one interval
slightlier longer than the last one
[.1 sec.]
to the next
in an unfold which fulcrums
before
and
after. Starting (ting!)
the next one too soon and skitteringinging.

Mercury twinkles in why. We wonder:
what ever happened to the silvery tongue?
We lapped the cream from the rising steam once,
our tongues, forever soldered to the spoon,
releasing the steam that’s begging to get out.

Impervious to ancient meanings,
all newlyish and beguiled,
willfully obtuse,
these lilac tongues are mute scimitars
arrest in scabbards, squeaking on the belt.