Acoustics,
quartet there
where the Adam’s apple
bobs & only
the lowest notes are spoken:
the good dark range.

That is what is called & caught,
shining right through smoke, but clear,
the clearest thing coming forth,
warmer in eyes suddenly noticed,
a suddenness striking.

So struck
as though by a whisper
amid a night of sirens & fighting cats,
the edges, the lengths of sensitivity became
sleep or leave –
became too the face of that man who left,
who I also keep leaving.

– Stephen Mead