by Karen VolkmanThe throat-flute uttering its constant note of claim and name and wake and never-same and nuanced cadences of sate, remote days translated into a breathing frame, knows its viewless voice is future's lend, surpassing present where it grows and dwells momently, glancing vocable, to spend blooming fullness as it spills and swells in the air, ear, othered. Heard, is it the same? Future-fathered, present-mothered—instrument of mute contingencies its songs declaim note by note by stopless increment in the sounding, silenced. Audible degree nights the note that lets mind's nighttime see.
