Voice



your voice new as piano keys-black white and aching-
                                        beginning its gracious news. or in a pine barrened to a
                        backyard,
                        turn blankly to fall.                    there is nothing to offer the
                 sky
                                                but the smell of dead leaves.                     
                                                so they begin their turn
                                                                            incensed.
                                                                                       a tip of the nose
                                                                            phenomenon. at the edge
                of the tongue we all speak greatly.                                              last
                night in the backyard
        falling under the still great moon,                    in yellowgold memory

i saw what's full and winter storming through,
                                        measuring anomalous morning thunder
                                                            in the palm of its hand.                   how
                                             unusually true, too,
                                                                    in the 30 or so below, the mouth still
                                                            spoke of you.