Your tongue’s
a burglary kit.
Your language
spins and steals.
Everywhere,
cracked safes
and opened rooms,
and all you did
was speak.
I take inventory,
trying to decide
what is missing;
nothing, it appears.
In fact some things
long thought lost
are in fact here now.
In fact, the rooms
are rearranged but full,
all the doors
still close when needed,
and all the dials on all the safes
still spin, endlessly
creating new combinations
for you to test and try.
You are forever breaking
all my locks, all my little codes.
The sound of your voice
picking its way in. Your hands
turning and turning upon me;
then, the sound
of the heavy door
swinging wide.