Susan Stewart: “in listening I am listening to the material history
your connection to all who have been impressed upon you
living or dead, the voice as with the eyes holds the life
of the self”—as we move from one app to another you say 
imagine this is the part where I am inching my chair 
a little closer, ordering dessert—I have become used to 
pacing my apartment, dictating to some future version 
of yourself—maybe like me you play the voice notes several times
both because they are long and because it is easy
to get lost in the trail of your materiality, caught 
in your impressions’ grooves—and once sent rarely go back
as if what is before us is all that is living, what will be caught 
and rendered and cut off, mingled with the sound of your dogs
coughing, the streetcar, music playing gently in another room—
I know these rooms now—the kitchen, the red room, and 
the bed—Stewart again: “the voice in poetry is the voice 
of the lover”—she tells a story about a man who smashes rocks
on the weekend (amateur geologist) and gases butterflies 
in cyanide, an unknowing tribute to his grandmother’s lover
who in a concentration camp broke rocks and died 
by gas—how we return to what we don’t even know
—what is yours and what doesn’t belong to you—at a funeral 
a distant uncle or an older second cousin, this was eight or nine
years ago, said my voice was like that of a doctor, which I took
to mean: cold, circling—a history of this—but now realize
he didn’t specify—a voice can mean many things—who did 
I love, how did it come to me, what was impressed, what was I
wrestling with, what did it mean, and what do you hear now

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