Cantilenae for three voices. Moises you say? Voices! Remembering Hebrew. I’d like to know who’s talking. That’s how it always is. Vorausnahme & Vorig a soft whirr overhead. The words dream their letters in a walking tomb. Behind the seal. Wake. The closed book. Where Great Cats sound sonemes in the rift before the real. The road. A boy in a crypt walks awake in tight shoes. What is my name? The white walls. I press my hands against, press past to oil press sound through skin. Purple hands bougainvillea flowing over your fence.
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