My Secret Voice

I float my secret voice above
a fine, imaginary, rhythmic
upward series of evolving lines

of music: dream of a piano’s rising,
broken chords that claim in their
resolving aching sweet suspensions

just exactly what a frame for voice
should be: at least for me – now –
as with light breath and a tight

vibrato something coalesces
and projects to sing: one wonders
how one’s gifts take wing, and why

they choose to, when: whence
comes the confluence of magic
factors that allows the thing to bring

outside what it has kept inside.
A friend is coming over
in a moment, and I’d sort of

like to let him hear – but I expect
as soon as he gets near,
my secret voice will disappear.




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