Your mouth on its soundless hinge
opens and closes broken
like the mouth of a goldfish
as I listen.

It's not, you see, that I didn't listen
to what I heard.

You spoke the sound of wind, sunlight sieved
and released in the distance, but where
was your voice in all of this
rushing life--stones--carrion
unmoved in the tidal pools--
the arid, receding language
of moans, then morning
dissolved, a tender bruise
of every thing almost--in an instant
almost a gesture, having almost begun.
The flint jaw, the teeth and tongue
the pieces the pieces intact
but the voice. Like finding
despite the sense of rain, thunder
only stagnant clouds. No proof.

And now my brain has shattered. Opened. No song
or light remains inside. This wind,
though this windwas not the sound I meant to hear.