Spoonfuls

and I hear their voices
and I hear their voices
and I hear their voices
amen

blue zig-zags
wry sardonic the register of love
of loss of what was once
yearning for yesterday’s
tomorrow or tomorrow’s
yesterday reflected
in cold metal
warmed by the hand
that held it
that hand might turn traitor
and plunge it abandoned
into a stream of ice floe

and I hear my voice
and I hear my voice
and I hear my voice
amen