They show no signs of finding the food,
though I’ve left it for weeks, though
the winter is rough and a trail of hulls
extends through the garden, and the birds,
which are said to be harbingers of things,
eat from the neighbors. In the yard: the black
seeds. In the telephone mouthpiece: holes.
Each one listens and sucks in speech,
gives to me voice, the ghost of a voice.
In the morning, the suction-cupped feeder’s
slid from the window and splayed untouched
sunflower, hard as words from your mouth.
And now it is a dead mouth, and I think
the soul must be the voice, that which leaves
the body, that which I forgot first: music
ribbon, melody hill. In movies, the detectives
take the phone apart and find miles of curling
wire. The listening device, that sharp-
tongued piece, the bug, the plant, looks out
of place, is pinched between finger and thumb,
held up to light. Then, silence! No one speaks.