To Speak

There are words.
Sometimes, they’d come
like a racing waterfall over mossy rocks,
Flooding the spaces,
Forming life or at the very least
a bit of green.
Sometimes they’d be caught
dryly in the back of my mouth,
Resting on the place
where the rancid taste of morning
lingers.
Sometimes, I’d stutter
a single solitary word
that would balance
on my tongue like a ball on the
nose of a seal in show.
Sometimes, I’d scramble
a few words together quickly,
Becoming the word jumble on the back page
that most people avoid except
the ones who want a sense of
accomplishment.
Sometimes, I’d think the words
v e r y s l o w l y
before I spoke
hoping the words would tumble
single-file out of my throat,
But they’d always collide with ears
making a mess like bugs
against a coasting windshield.
And sometimes
if I got lucky,
I’d say a few words
without a glimmer of true thought
premeditation or planning.
They’d ricochet across the room
meeting your ears in
stop-motion quality
as a coherent blast of articulation
that I couldn’t reenact if I tried.