Sense quickly tricks quietude;
the indigenous port of a solitary
woman’s throat descants
her spiral partsong.
“My life is a mediocrity.”
goes the first voice.

The volcano peaks pour theirs,
listless clouds purl theirs,
the cleaved meats seep theirs,
and her sensible eyes embark therefore.

“My blessing is expected.”
states the second voice, inviting the
only burning wicks of sound
to note her.