The phone it is my responsibility

to carry and respond to


speaks in wind chime language,

and I unbury my hands


from just beneath the earth

where they have grown static


and dense from the nutrient

warmth of soil. I lift them,


and they do not stop lifting.

Your voice is clipped


like birds’ feathers

scattered on my sheets.


I have always wanted to be

implausibly suspended


in air. The sky is just

what people think: an aperture,


an ocean, a blindfold

shot through with diamonds


of buried people. I can almost

see our house from here.

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