Could we ever learn to read their runes?

To test the texture of those shy, reluctant smiles

and guess their distance to a kiss?

 

They send smoke signals,

talk of pow-wow

sharpen fork-tongue

go to wigwam . . .

(Hope cavalry come soon.)

 

We hear hieroglyphs, hexadecimal,

Vulcan and Venusian,

live long and prosper language

- our mother tongue falling deaf

on a simple father's ears.

 

We're supposed to know,

some psychic empathy,

syncopated resonance,

in-built, ingrained, in-tune,

enigma code

an inner lexicon of nuance,

cartography and meteorology

of the psyche

- a butcher's balance for the soul.