We grab our words from thin air
Drag words up from the wriggling earth
Such unearthly digressions infect even 
The connotations of our words, like ripples dripping from a stone,
We veer further from home than we ever thought
Possible. We grow to loathe ourself and 
Our empty suggestibility. Something must last.
We stumble back to denotation, to shared
Meanings we so blithely deny: the earth,
The air, fire and sky, monosyllables
That water our imaginations still.
As life, the common currency of feckless
Man, restores its grip upon our truer self
Leaves me emptily replete with wordy wealth.