Ghosts of Babel

Too many ghosts of Babel
Choke the air
I've sucked into my lungs.
These ponderous false cognates
Have teeth of spears and arrows,
And all this speaking
Has shredded the inside of my mouth;
Where do you sheath the sharpened tongue?

No wonder some monks
Clip that fleshy knife out
In truth or in avowed effigy.