calls are never welcome.
in a foreign language, the phone
wakes you from a dream
you can’t remember
but maybe it was green,
contained an inland sea.
now on the other end of the line
an old voice makes noise
of tears and distance, history
too far to cross and you
have no alphabet to count
this news, though in truth
news like this waits always half-
winged in its backbrain cave. you
watch the dark sky beyond this
window, and say what you can.
Beautiful piece, Tobey! Atmospheric, moving. My backbrain knows this moment.
Beautifully resonant, Tobe.
I admire this piece for many reasons and will return to it, but I wanted especially to comment on the music of this poem. The sound work is so well done. Reading it aloud is a true pleasure. Thank you.