Untitled

On the way home, I take off
a pink mitten, and push
scan, and for awhile
I drive and scan. Then,
I settle on something classical:
oboe, strings, solo flute
lyrics for the swelling hills
covered in a blazing white slab of
February snow, undulating unbroken
and soft
as I drive by. My phone rings
twice when you call, and I
pull the car over onto
the shoulder of the road
to better be able
to talk to you. I close my eyes
and I listen to your voice:
the timbre of the air you breathe
vibrating through your vocal folds, your
particular phonation.
I can't name them,
but I know them by heart,
even with my eyes closed: your voice's
range and weight, your most usual
breaks, and lifts -
I don't say that much. I mostly listen. I turn down
the radio, and I close my eyes. I hear
your words,
I know
your voice,
I can see
the air you breathe
pouring in, and then
lifting through,
and then sighing out of you. These days
this is mostly
how I talk to you.