This is my voice.

It is barely audible

in the stippled, colorless static,

a crude sketch.

A sunspot

that slightly warms and leaves

bread crumbs, or atoms, or


And covers its eyelids and hides.

A smile in a sea of light-

Or is it?

A feather lost

in a flurry of doves,

but is not a dove.

Nor is it white.

It is yellow.

And how this distaste

is natural.

How obsolete my determination

to enjoy it is,

and I wear it like the desert does,

the clear, summer dusk,

like it does not already get enough.