April 20

Voicebox

A sound can be kept alive indefinitely.
Sometimes telephones hum to each other at night.
Someone once spoke into a box of bone
so finely crafted that the echo remained
unborn until the box was opened. I want
to be the voice that's keeping you awake
right now. This is the kind of night
that turns every sound the color of bone.
You can see the trails of light that remain
whenever a thought slides bast. You want
to find their source, but you're barely awake
and as brittle and cold as dry bone.
An incandescent halo remains
on the backs of your eyelids. A ring. Who wants
to talk at this time, and who's awake?
Silence scatters the remains
of sleep. It seems to want
to join you in bed, awake.
All I want
is awake,
awake.