Civilization Lives in the Throat

like a bird cross-stitching a backyard with sound.
The throat is the hollow stem of a wine glass,
the root of the question mark that rises out of the heart
into the head. The throat connects heartbeat and word;
can you tell by its rhythm which speech drinks its truths
and which does not thirst. The lark ascends in your communications
or it does not. A child sits on a bank, piping a river
through a wooden flute. Listening at a window
a woman hums sun’s delight across water
as she sketches architectural plans for a new city hall.
People flow through those glass doors, reflections approach
like ideas surfacing, words seeking air. The inner
leaps toward the outer like the pulse in the throat
shared by everyone you pass on a downtown street.
The street itself is a throat, each of us carried in its pulse—
city landscaped by voice. Civilization lives in the cry
that lifts like early morning light up skyscraper windows
above the slumped panhandler, his cap a silent mouth.
Well-wishers drop coins and hurry their own surrender away.
What is language if we do not speak what stammers the tongue?
Not knowing is the beginning of everything.
The same notes play us all, though we arrange into different chords;
one shared note can listen you into a strange city
where people you’ve never met smile like songs you want to learn
and we’re all busking our heartbeats for a dime.
There perched on a street corner bench, a lark embroiders
our sidewalk anthem. It ascends.