If tenderness of my heartbeat seems
like tocsin to your ears, the failing is
neither yours nor mine, error is in the
edifice. Sharpness in words is vetted
as children. Adults soak in unctuous
sounds: implorations are incendiary.
We wear the cangue of other births,
some laboriously, some with levity.

editors note: Our perpetual pillory; we are shamed or we shine. – mh clay