The Voice Must Belong to Someone

The repetitions bring forth the usual phrases useful for daylight,
cross-stitched rhetoric & the talking that gamely takes up
national debt, carbon trades & reasons for going on best confronted
by going on.

When the voice fails—(does it alone convince us, walking along,
talking to ourselves,
naming the varied birds in the field & clouds taking up the usual
space)—silence stares us
in the face & breathing is what’s advised to fool the brain into another
day.

But leaving that aside, take the voice so marshaled by syntax,
the present progressive & dangling participles & it must belong to
someone,
an argument that takes us to the inward voicings hard-wired to the
unnamable
out of which one hears things, stirring things, evocative things,
things that with practice might suffice.

The voice must belong to someone, we say,
hoping for some homunculus who stirs about among the organs,
a recognizable sort who will wish for things, take up many things,
meditate into a kind of long-admired sturdiness, someone, say
someone.