Somewhere there is a voice that
Tires quickly, and retreats.
Leaps quietly over
Ambushes and dead-end streets, so
Drawn to the distant that none can approach
This voice. So fearlessly building
A new world from nothing,
This whisper of a song.
And these cycles reinvent themselves,
Like children lying to each other…
Maybe I imagined this voice
That cannot speak.
I love that you are from Brooklyn, I
Would say to her. I had already found
Poetry in you, like
A current of gold