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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