with boyish abandon i reached in and

captured the still small voice.

put it in a glass jar.

it didn't bang a white noise drum.

instead--it captured unmarred clarity.

now i was as much in the jar as observing it.

while yet another still small voice subsequently

grew.

since then i've amassed a vast collection of

glass jars.

stocking up for the Winter of winters,

where i'll get to hear the real sound of

my voice.

oddly enough many flies have undergone fits

of insanity--caught in the crosshairs of this

bizarre magic.