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.