The singer opens like a hollow bell,
voice spilling pebble-light and iron light,
each vowel a small bright mouth that throws itself
into the room, and the room takes breath.
Words loosen at the lip and become wind:
a ribboned current, a hand that shapes itself
around the ribs, a tide that knows the throat.
Rides the voice like weather rides a ridge.

Now the air tastes of ledger-rooms and winter;
syllables comb through the bones and count them: one, two, hush.
The wind, enamoured of its own fidelity,
learns the singer’s name and forgets the music.
It leans into the curtains and grows heavy as ruin,
and the singer, hollow in sound, reaps the wily wind.