Conference Call
I give to you my voice --
My lips that press, unpress, impress upon my breath,
I keep these to myself -
But --
I give to you my voice --
My tongue that touches, traveling in susurrations, raising war against my gullet gates,
I keep this to myself -
But --
I give to you my voice --
My throat that hoards the hollows of my breath, that stitches hems along my voices edge,
I keep this to myself -
But --
I give to you my voice --
The words, yes, like a deck of slides,
Blooming stems of the inane,
Distilled to fit agendas:
A self composed of meeting minutes -
And yet, I am the long-walled, warm and humid cavern,
That you cannot see,
You cannot have, you cannot see.
My voice is a fat-threaded fustian,
And I tell you to retrieve from it the contours of the loom,
From the whispers, curled, and warbled hissings, half devoured by the copper wire.
Listen, listen close.
Listen, listen close.
(images by Double-M) Read More......
