Find the least thought you can think, pressed down through what was water at the moment you woke.

If held, what arms can still the syllables against the tongue’s will. If drowned, let it lie quieted awhile.

Wait: ears drum against a silence, phantom limbs to somehow flex, murky silt sucks to swallow the sound.

When it sounds, little words blacken edge-first, & center themselves, nostalgic glass a sun won’t shine through.

Torpor sets all the bones shiver makes sounds like tiny creatures swum too soon in a river too cold the audible clicks of thoughts not thought until the surface cracks.