Don McKay
"We talk because we are mortal."
- Octavio Paz
And because we aren't gods,
or close to gods,
we sing. Your breath steps
boldly into lift to feel that other breath
breathing inside it: Summertime, Amazing Grace. And when it stops
you sense that something fold back
into air to leave you listening,
lonely as a post. Shall we call this angel?
Shall we call it animal, or elf? Most of us
are happy with a brief
companionable ghost who joins us in the shower or
behind the wheel. Blue Moon, Hound Dog, Life
Is Like a Mountain Railroad. When your voice
decides to quit its day job, which is mostly
door to door, to take its little sack of sounds
and pour them into darkness, with its
unembodied barks and murmurs, its refusal
to name names, its disregard for sentences,
for getting there on time,
or getting there,
or getting.
