Listening Still

I listen carefully for your voice,
  certain it will pulse with baritone smoothness
  massaging my anxieties, securing my soul's footings,
  feeding its fast. I listen in the lyrics of
  songsters and poets, in the cadences of preachers
  and newsmen, in the overheard confidences of diners and
  busriders, in the affection of friends and intimates.
I keep listening, slowly deafening myself
  to higher pitches as if to siren songs or comfortable
  seductions, sure as I am that Truth could not come
  from breasts that too easily give their breath
  to words. Altoed hushes promise
  color and light splash, honey and chocolate, down-
  filled beds and kindled fireplaces. But Reality
  and Identity remain the reserve of deeper
  vibratos stealing upon me like remote thunder
  or rhythmic tide whose weight, regardless how
  familiar and regular, carry me under in surprising
  force to a drowning helplessness that relieves me
  of the burden of my own survival and lifts me
  to a life undeserved but that I reach for
  with every word I utter
  and muscle I flex.
I listen
  and wait
    and listen still.