it’s good paper, I think
as the mauve pile
slips into the printer-slot
his bold font choice
faced away
the list of gigs obsolete
my play is all about the dead
how their voices echo
and I print it out
with a smirk
it’s still too soon to write
his character out of my head
what, with the old vice grips
yet to sell, these resumes to recycle
and the earlier deaths to purge
She sat cross legged
On the lambskin rug
Her grandparents brought
From New Zeland
When she was six
for Diane & Roxlyn
billow of breath
circumferential
ease open
close easily
new air spreads its bounty
inside varied body-mind
on the sagittal plane
travel back toward not yet
open cautious
honor walled-off inspiration
what was left behind gathers
into exhale
in the intricate poetics of voice
from hum forward thyroid
to soft eeee arytenoid
breath crosses chasms
find deep cartilage
vibrate bone initiate
authentic sound
out of murmur into silence