Pidgin

This is my adaptive tongue, my blue pidgin -- words once grooved in song making do in a newly colonized world. Harnessed to a next master, I'm learning how to say it all again in a strangely local land, a poetic moulted into rhetoric, dark words up from the hallows of the ear now harrowing the eye, a sense moved inland to dryer shores. I can't say why but there's nothing new to that; nor the need for deeper enquiry though my words are flatter and fleeter here, inflecting old depths in order to accommodate new breadth. Ages are changing before my eyes, too fast to read much sense in it. Dark amperage by day: now that's a dawn-blue horse! I'm like a coolie at the wharf, wearing cone hat & loincloth as I load these massive boats with gold meant for greater kings than I have wits to name.

But will.