Poem: I Do Not Often Think of It

I Do Not Often Think of It

I keep it away,
in a back shelf
in some room 
I never visit
even to dust.
I do not think
about it very much,
not even enough to name it,
not enough to be certain,
only there is some calling,
a voice drifting from a hallway,
almost too soft to hear, nothing
of what it sings is words,
the tune is even muffled,
and I do not know how
I have even noticed it,
but I think I have before,
once, maybe.  I would go,
seek it, find where it rises from,
but I am afraid: it is so soft,
if I move from where I am,
will I hear it still,
and if I cannot hear it
will it be forgotten again?

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