Gobbledygook

When I wake up, none of my words are a sentence,
and so I don’t wake up. The words are souled and dreamful,
and they slide like loose planets, and I don’t wake up.
When you look at them they get more distant, you know?
So you don’t look at them, and they swell like swallowed tongues,
crowded around the low dull heat of almost-language,
a commotion of connotation. This could mean something,
probably, if I could say it, if you could say it.

Written October 11, 2024, a random Friday morning at home in Providence