At the end of the age,
the words wrung dry; we sifted through
the sweet- tasting pulp left on the rinds
and sucked them in through our chattering teeth…
  
we were in need of words, you see.
The cogs had taken over, the well-oiled wheels
had taken over,
had moved us far too forward – away from
  
understanding how to shape our mouths 
around vowels and consonants-- 
the gas, kindling and flame.
  
There was no more destruction, 
and so we didn’t think to rebuild;
we never thought
to search the wreckage
for the golden parable
  
or the wiser tongue 
who kissed ugly as passionately
as it did the moon.