Between Stations

Between the sentences

and the answer now,

something stays speaking

softly, stubborn still.

Every voice wavers now.

Every promise parts.

Every prayer presses hard

against small silence.

Weather warns of whether

the radio repeats.

The phone rings, then retreats

The heart keeps keeping time.

Again, as all are alive,

and august of another.

Listen beneath language,

listen below breath now.

Hear consonants collide.

Hear broken breath break free.

Hear vowels vanish, fade.

Hear whispers wear things now.

The apology assigns:

Catches, cracks, crumbles.

The confession folds,

falters, falls backwards now.

The name nearly forms:

The name nearly flies free.

Everything stutters.

Everything doubles.

Everything returns,

wearing another voice.

Perhaps static is speech

squeezed by pressure now.

Speech split and scattered still.

Speech seeking shelter still.

Through storms and steel, it moves.

Through stone and skin, it sings.

Still searching something safe.

Still seeking someone’s soul.

So, we say, Can you

silence answers first?

Can you hear me now?

Stillness stays speaking silence.

Then one small syllable,

sharp as sudden frost stays.

Not because noise ends.

Not because night yields.

But because one voice learned

to sing inside noise.