the poem bears the taste

of the sweet bittersweet

the irony tagged like a kite.

and the way that the words

would not mean a thing

to someone or something 

who'd never heard of a word, 

never heard a word.

like the lonelist whale,

who sings at high Hertz

and not one other whale has yet heard her.

but if words carve a path

from primal to late

brain matter to the very

tips of my fingers;

the sweet bittersweet

is right there for me.

i must like words now, 

for i'm bound within them.

and i'll think of something pretty.