Someone was speaking
myself and others were listening
and I wondered where all the sounds that made the words were going
maybe through the floor or walls
to disappear forever as if they had never been spoken

Maybe they just keep travelling
the sounds that make the words
all those things we said that seemed important at the time
now hurtling through a vast expanse
like jets of string spinning in the wind

I like to imagine that in that dark cinnamon soup
lives a being so advanced that we could never understand it
grazing off a trillion words a day
and if it valued all the words the same as I do
there is a God out there that is starving