Your mouth's a bag of marbles,
twisted lips in glass. Your words
are suffocated, bubbles of sponge
in your cheeks. The besotted
olive of your tongue: I cannot
make out your meanings.

Were you asking for time
on some street corner, begging
an audience, or poaching my
ears with simmering questions?
Did you need me? What did that
slurry of sound intend of me?
Having you been hanging around
at a convention of dentists,
hoping to work as a stooge?

You came to me, hobgoblin.
I heard only your hyphens.

From Robinson Crusoe's Bank Holiday Monday