Phone Call to Canada

 

A voice again

Soft pulse of breath

across wired turns

under cold stars

Distance a landscape of gesture

Of strangers and shadows

Incidental squalor

 

A smooth night

Blue dream of distance

careening to her

Waiting in ordered rooms

She moves to brittle windows

ice-flecked, darkened

Night madness

 

A tethered field

White elegance of death

over curled grasses,

sleeping webbed cocoons

 

She sees eyes through the

pane rattling in its mortar

Arctic song

© 2018  Jay Cravath

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