it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
My voice, when I heard it
Sounded like another's voice
When I've been at length in silence
It is a mute I have become
And the body speaks, not I
No certain pitch or timbre
Can I suppose or guess
That it will speak when it does
But speak it must, or rather
'utter', that strange hold-out
From another age and world
A speaking word which speaks
Of the silence which preceded it.

I am wracked to find words
Who am so given to them
As clover is given to flowers
As tadpoles to a stream.
They have a word for it now
Which describes that strange power
That energy that flows
Between you and I speaking
And do we now understand it
Like we understood the aether
And the electron and the quark
And the brown-paper package
Tied up in string?

An utterance, an invocation
So greeted by fear and awe
By those who do not care
To understand what it means
Except they find a shortcut
Down paths narrow, long and hard.
The bright line between the silence
And the noise, is a cartoon
An icon that cannot be seen
But is always behind the eyes
Cutting with diamond edges
And the world quivers because
It has received a word.

Do we suppose those things
Beings which now might listen
Perhaps may have our interest
Ever in their minds?
Times and times and ages
Do not favor this sort of magic
Of things out of correspondence
Stars set out to wander
Of things which find no place
Dion might say, consider
Why call on foreign masters
When one's own help and succor
Is but an utterance away?

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