Travel Shorts

The sun may have woken me first,
but I'd had a night of fitful gasping.
Operosely orectic I'd been persuing 'O's
and wrestling with wonderous workable 'W's.
So it seemed the dictionary had called me to wake.
I was teetering on the edge of the book;
poised and ready for exploration.
All I had to do was jump
and I could find myself
cleansed under words and their powers.
Sibilant sounds of swishing as I search
the pages for suppletives and suffixes;
their fricatives tiny hooks tugging
on my hair like a little boy in the
playground.
My rubiginous freckles resting on the riparian
banks of 'R's and all their purring glory.
Transpicuous water tumbling over my inept toes
I rise to the surface only to see
that it's cold up there and I bit my
tongue in the arc of conversation.
I dive back in. Rippling through ribbons
of rudimentary 'roonerspisms', which always make
me giggle and deliver a blushing crow.
As I turn fathoms to leagues
my stories are collected;
drawing into me other worlds with their
metonymy and morphology
and showing up through my skin like veins.
Each carrying a tale.