Cunning Linguist

by Atlas Booth


Flew my mouth south for the winter

Now the tropics are my home

Tongue swirling through the forest

Bringing on the rain foretold


Circling a lush oasis

‘Til it opens up its doors

Deeper and deeper I go

Brushing every single wall


Suction cup that sweet spot

While you hum the whole way through

Map out each wall vibration

Like fingers tend to do


If you trigger an earthquake

They’ll name the day for you


Atlas Booth is a writer who lives in Cape Town, South Africa. He enjoys all kinds of different tea’s and cold brew coffee. For more information on his work, follow him on twitter: atlasbooth or visit his website:

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