Self-Evident

the sound of my voice has grown strange to me.

like a soft leg sliding under new sheets.
unused and old. unfamiliar. the groan
starts low in my ribs. it stretches across
my lungs, burrowing into my mouth
where I chew on the taste, savoring
odd couplings and stretched syllables.

I don’t know anything but the sound rolling like untouched hills
whose history consists of the 
occasional birds flight overhead.

the sadness creeps low, 
softening the harsh angles

of anguished eyebrows.

like dewy eyes in a beautiful face
the contrast all the more distinct
for having existed at all.
or pronouncing ever uniquely
the true recesses in which beauty abides, 
time and time again 
to change our lives in 
unalterable ways.