Tongue

It's never one word that parallels life
there are many, It's many faces
contorted or fragmented, with bristles
or light make-up, with hair or 
a hat that doesn't go with anything

In every face a little box of skin
in every box that opens a treasure
of flesh and blood whereby any 
assertion can come to life, and each
antonym with the same force, so that 
each word can live its own life.

Can you still understand me when I lisp?
Do you understand me when I put my tongue 
between my teeth and bite? No face that
can make all others redundant, no word can
be sufficient unto itself, there are many,
especially those that are about nothing:
nobody can exist in language alone