iceberg

I may or may not know what I want. I know what I feel. 

 Like a slow death. The waiting.

I have so much to say that gets choked back on that trick, that catch

that waits for my abandon and holds on white-knuckled

a death grip

I find the voice-- the one that can't speak

I float the words 

testing, tasting their tips

just the taste 

just the tip