It is familiar language, like the lifetime leitmotif
of a vowel, the one pure sound you will ever make,

what you say to yourself in the little litany
of breathing.

                        But nothing like the bicycle lay out
all night on the lawn.
The first voice I ever heard
I still hear, like the small talk in a daydream.

Przewalski’s horse on the wall at Lascaux is language,
as in a child’s drawing the voiceprint is simply visual,
what the eye overheard. Every voice we imagine will

eventually take form, as those we remember are
        written down.

Here and here and here.

Stanley Plumly, “This Poem”, in Out-of-the-Body Travel