Spill

A rush of words,

a pitcher pitched on lip, a splosh,

an overrun, an overbrim,

I can’t contain what I must say,

it gushes from a place I cannot plumb.

The rush sweeps me away.

I cling to letters better left alone

as I will find myself 

if I can’t find a way to dam the flood.

published in Imogene's Notebook