SOUND JOHN PAUL DAVIS
We walk together
& our linked hands
have a small friction
like brushes over a snare
drum only incredibly quieter
& the wind is wearing
its big boy pants today
because it’s early spring
so it makes the same
exact sound only a million
times louder. We hear four
different languages
but only in smatterings
as we pass people
& the creaking of the sign
against its pole
& the banging of a door
not fully closed
& even the leaf-rustle
of the books laid out on the sale
tables outside the bookstore
& the toenails of that spaniel
cavorting alongside a jogger
holding its leash
& your voice, I hear
that most of all, your warm
& buttery vowels, I’d say
your voice is magenta
if voices have colors
& of course they do,
voices also have shapes
& geographies
for example yours
is a polygon
with no equal sides
& it is also a wetland