I begin with the lower ranges of the human voice,
the constant acoustics of speech, spectro-temporally
speaking: Time and air making words—Magic: The een of a
hinge or iss of a gust forming meanings lost even to
those who know the language, yet spark the body, the senses:
Muscles releasing the fire of laughter—or tears, even!
Distance no matter, distinctions understood. These are words.
Do you hear it? Without you, no poem; but I can’t wait for
your understanding, can’t stand still for your Apprehension;
must manifest the line in absence, must mold constantly
the connotation and gently open the meaning of
the word—Still, you will complete the Event, you will see, speak
(spacio-temporally, so to speak) the excellent
metaphor for common experience: It’s a crowded
room. Words I do not know; you making the wonderful sound.