Rathke’s Pouch

As you read
Place the tip of your tongue
Against the roof of your mouth
Explore the dome
And there in the centre at the vertex
Is a small pit
This is Rathke’s Pouch
We all have one
But most have never known it
Even though the tongue lies against it every day.
When you were developing in your mother’s womb
This is where an important part of your brain was
It then migrated to within your skull

Thus we are made of mysteries
And this is only the physical man
Think of all the migrations
And fusions and elliptical journeys
That your mind made
As it formed your thinking
And your soul made
As it formed your feelings.
And where is the tongue
Of your soul
To lick the making of yourself?


A weatherman and a waterdog
Watched a seaboat against the skyrain
On the strandcoast of the juttedland
The bluegreen of the maneye
Had insight into the shipway
And the shething upon it
But the greyblack of the dogeye did not
Because the man’s deepsoul
Could wordplay in his highmind
With tearthought from his fateheart
Which had lightlife on the sheboat

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