A voice is passed from hand to hand,
smoothed, shaped, until distinctions
and design rub and fade. The sound
goes out, hesitates, comes back,
crafted the way driftwood is made.

What we speak is marked by
splits and cracks. The grain of speech
pops and grinds. Each solid syllable,
each heavy word, is circled with
other’s lines, rings that chance
creates. Sometimes it’s pocked
with odd mistaken signs and
the lover’s simple question hits
the ear as hate.

What is nature for us? A larynx
and a low nodding moan. For the
rest we speak in chorus, thousands
talking through our throats. Pauses,
coughs, slips collide along with
every sound we’ve ever heard. All
curses and seductions fill the play
of every word.

To say “I want that” seems desire’s
trick for seizing on the thing. But a
crowd shouts in that sentence.
Question the “I,” the “want” and the
answer they give — we’re owned
by our unknown

motives. Squeezing and closing in a
rhythmic dance, lips unlearn. The
infant’s choking scream becomes
possessed and freed. We begin to
breed a million ways to approach
and recede, to mark with an
orbit our unutterable need.

at times the words aren't heard clearly through the distortion of our own listening. Amazing write through and through

inspired sit quiet

Thank you...

pkd
Harold
MisKim