What does it explain if I believe
language is the mother of its language.
Every voice a child, a little stranger,
born of flesh and the hole inside it.
If you holler in this well, you hear
it reply in the form of a question.
The limits of my language are the beginnings
of my world. Wait and see, says the world.
And see, and see, the tunnel of the eye.
– by Bruce Bond
