How soft do I have to be
to file into place and not stick out
to sink myself willingly
in the mire of your needs
to find the quicksand ready,
and be willing

How soft do I have to be to earn
those minute praises that are
all I will ever be due
those hissed whispers in the bell
of my ear that is all the affection
that I might attain

How soft to slip a mouthful of mud
down below the tongue, a tablespoon
of mold and algae and matter
into the recesses of my throat

Join there my voice, what is
left of all that was primal: now coat, coat,
dense with murk and carbon,
that the voice can stay hidden
and not be found out