The voice that is dry leaves and plush essences. A voice from the dreamworld warning it can’t be done. Time sulking under the willows. I still hear the wind around the door of your name, pushing and pulling the snowfelt evening, delivering its parcels, pining for Phoebe Reggio, bemoaning the dullard in me. I can still hear your voice and the doves’ language, speaking the river’s lingo and cant, insisting insisting . . . The tongue of rare elements and noble gases, small-talk gnawing on its sweetened straw. The voice lost among fields of cane, a few grains remaining in Mr. Mnemonics’ storehouse of plenty. Where did you go when you went there? Voice like a swallow’s swoop and ship’s lantern. A voice pitched like a memory jarred. Like a storm coming and the heart’s sailor longing for safe harbour.