Larks

by David Ruekberg

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What voice was that kept ringing 

in my ear? Believing it was most 

often my own. Hoping. In fact no 

line between them—though one can 

say they fit within demarcations 

of the same shape. Neighbors, in

a way. Or prisoners, in another. 

Nor was it a ringing, really. In 

truth, I leaned on that word too 

easily, so the song disappeared. 

I found it eventually, where I’d 

left it, again. After all, I was 

the one who’d vanished—or tried. 

Not by design. Mine anyway. That

is, the design I was. That I am. 

As though I could divorce what I 

make mine from what has made me.