Aug 122011
 
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.

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