Instead of counting syllables to the point of stress,
they’d like to climb atop each other,
dive from their pyramidal alphabet
into the teaspoon of saliva below.
While the consonants all put in mouthguards for their leap,
the vowels shut their eyes and begin to meditate.
Each letter has its own perfunctory mouth, opening and closing.
What I do not know is how my own mouth fills with them,
how I open it and, through a softening of the tongue,
they hatch from some deep pool
out to the vibrating air.
How they stumble toward each other and fasten into words.
How these clumsy hieroglyphics transcribe me.