It's not only because the world 
is coming apart that it no longer 
offers itself to me 
as an infinite dictionary 
and speech takes back it's most glamorous figures.
Something in me, an alteration 
like liquid turning solid, 
draws me to the photograph
of the country woman whose mouth 
has become a straight, hard line,
a terse signal for closure.
I tried to imagine her younger, 
her mouth swelling and parting 
into lips, her nearly opaque eyes 
fluid with expectation.
Clearly the world has never 
offered itself to her; 
it has taken and taken until she became 
empty and sealed. The habit of speech 
is not like riding a bicycle, 
something you never forget; 
it dries up like the habit of tears, 
like playfulness. Nothing in her face 
gives me permission to speak for her, 
even if I could.