I watched as he fell from his waking shelf
Into familiar waters that filled a room of lowering light and liquid song.
Waiting for his breath to turn, his self to turn, one last sigh and off the ledge he dropped,
To meet me where we always met to talk.
To talk not the talk of words but straight from his rising and falling chest from which
His second voice, a voice I knew less well though had known for longer
Sighed breath-words that carried secrets from another place.
“But I have so many worries,” I whispered, “uncountable worries, enough to fill the whole of space.”
And he sighed on beneath the birdsong,
“So you might, so you might.” I heard.
“Hang them on tress, kite tails in the breeze.”
Constant Voice 