A half-dried tongue hinges
on the sense of promise
coloured and deepened
in the airy red of butterflies
Sense of flying in my mouth
I gulp it down and down
And I expand
like a poppy bulb in my throat
A full-throated promise
hinging its neck in my breath
And there’s the whole pipeline
of something certain and stiff
And shapely that stays
If only I could play with your mouth
In your own purple garden
A white white tongue trapped
in a cage of teeth
Promises caught in words
Meaning is the taste
Of swollen oranges.