Tapestry

I speak in tapestries,
they speak in polka dots.
An anomaly in a skin suit:
my words are all English,
yet no one holds my Rosetta stone.

I talk in paragraphs;
weaving in and out of thoughts
I illuminate, thread constellations,
hang the stars for them.

This is the sky, it is so grand,
look at our possibilities if we only seek them –

My syllables strive in earnest, always,
to meet them in the middle:
above the treeline, within our atmosphere.
And yet, with lips thin, unoxygenated
they decode me in fractions.

So, if I may speak freely?
I am weary down to my animal bones
of human interaction.