Where is your voice now 
that you have moved, you have migrated? 

            What has the land done to your tongue? 

It is not dirt I hear in your crumbling mouth. 
We did not bury you. When a tongue burns, 

            is it burned always? Does it hurt you? 

I can’t understand you, or you are not 
speaking; there is nothing to say or

            there is no way to say it. I wish you could 

write to me. I miss your script.
Where is your voice? I know more or less 

            where your mouth is scattered, 

where we scattered your mouth, but where 
are your teeth, where is the gold in them?