There is a timbre of voice

that comes from not being heard

and knowing you         you are not being

heard   noticed only

by others         not heard

for the same reason.


The flavor of midnight fruit    tongue

calling your body through dark light

piercing the allure of safety

ripping the glitter of silence

around you

dazzle me with color

and perhaps I won’t notice

till after you’re gone

your hot grain smell tattooed

into each new poem   resonant

beyond escape    I am listening

in that fine space

between desire and always

the grave stillness

before choice.


As my tongue unravels

in what pitch

will the scream hang unsung

or shiver like lace on the borders

of never     recording

which dreams heal    which

dream can kill

stabbing a man and burning his body

for cover     being caught

making love to a woman

I do not know.