There is no time to tell all the tongue trembles to tell. One feels full,-- a milk-weed pod ripened to bursting! Through each throat courses a cataract. Words logjam one to the other perpendicular, locked in puzzlement but tumbling on anyhow . . . . There is no time to decipher all the mysteries words bring us every day. No time, no time to find the tune inwound in every utterance. Still, it persists, a pressure seeking pleasure in the onrush of words. No conductor's baton tapping, tapping can resist. On, on! Words wheeling about like birds shotgun-scattered; like notes displayed against a grey random sky. If only there were time to decode the order and make the heart --imperiled by the pushing-- slow down and unravel the rhythm. If only there were time for rhythm: the mind's pace slackened open for the vowels and consonants of speech-- a speech of the mind that only in retrospect perhaps discerns the glottal stop. Time in the mind minding time to slow or hasten each action at will allowing rhythm to begin and begin again and again until there is only time.