Belfast Soprano

not a voice—a trajectory 
                                        of wings
wearing the wind
                          above the curving
earth a fluted sound

not a voice but
                       a crowd of laughter
a glass thrown
                     that never 
strikes the ground

not a voice but clasped hair 
atop the head

now unclasped
              into a flowing down

a voice—a leaf
                        trying not to drown

buoyed in the invisible
                         river we tread

our whole life

our whole life