She tries only to hide it--this voice that she has,
for fear of it leaving and falling too fast.
But the language-- it stutters then falls from her lips.
It crawls from the gutter where gladly it sits.
And warned by the watchman and feared by the priest,
her hands have been folded, her gown gently creased.
Now she must wait for her voice to come home,
for nothing frees words like a whispering dome.