Yes, Thomas?

The strange physicality
Of language keeps increasing,
The words crinkling in the hands

As if they, too, were paper,
Or a type of cellophane,
See-through language in boxes,

As boxes, small constructions
That aren’t really words at all—
A falsity to language

At the physical level,
Some other substance, pretense.
A slight shadow at the door.

You’re grateful for that shadow!
It alerts you words watch you
As they fade into the snow.