(The Fall of the Voice)
The ancient Greeks
believed a bee
could be killed with an echo.
Always the longing
to try this haunted me
not for the killing but
for the echoes.
I would find
a canyon filled with quiet
poppies and bees
and with one word 
from me they'd drop,
the bees, into the red poppies
Geese crying lonely
call freedom home
over quiet golden marshes --
train whistles, long
cross empty winter prairies --
church bells at dawn.
What you don't see
is that your words echo.
I too can drop
into the sad
silent poppies.

11 October 1999