Why did I listen to her? Because she refrained from speaking back.
My hearing twisted strings of words unsaid. These fine glass strings
like the un-plucked strands by Zinsky. Skins of fibers laced 

to make a conch that I could touch if only 

I could get behind museum glass. Toward hues of clouds 

that nexted selves of ripe blue green morphing gray. 

My hearing filled the delicate bowl that held 

matte surface. Held out to me the sound of the nearby sea. 

Helping me find her voice long after it had been sung.