To You

Marcus Wicker

The mute boy piano
virtuoso in the deep
stone well.

That single-body
cold each day.
That, nights, he thinks

he shrieks.
That moonless dark
blotting out a mouth

hippo-wide. Hole
puncher is to paper

as who is to poem?

Easier magnifying
glass than mirror.
O, the things unseen:

enflamed epiglottis,
small busted voice
box, symphonies

scratched on stone
well lines—more
loose leaf, really,

than ledger.
This void—that boy
is or could be you—

depending on the eye.
Unless, you’ve never
longedto be seen

or heard so bad. That,
nights, you cave
cancel the self.

Say it sad and plain:
that this poem
is a void.

That this well is
as far as your voice
has ever carried.