| OCR Text |
Show Shibboleth Judges 12.5-6 What we never let slip is the sound formed aright-the hushing shin opening to a high-voweled half-grimace, the cold kiss of the bet, the final breath stopped tongue to teeth-only gets you past the sentries. We worry more what you mean: in the word's susurrant fricative do you hear the grainfield just ripe whispering under wind, or water downrushing over shale? Does your watchword spike to fat com stretching sunwars or plunge into the land's least resistance lithe and liquid? What drives us batty is we can't unbraid it listening, what flinches us in secret is our hunch that either one will do. Beloved hostile, hostile beloved, what would we be without you? |
