Poetry

Phone line

I ask you where your eyes

find light – your mouth

falls down the back wall

to the receiver, hanging

limp by its cord, mumbling

love and family like trickles of water

flowing into a drain. Not

a downpour. Perhaps

I should have asked

a different question.

One that you’re more comfortable with?

 

Poetry

Evaporate

Engines chug away

propelling the clouds into new positions

that people read

as sacred teachings.

Oblivious

to the mechanics behind their prophets.

Those maintaining the perpetual motion

no longer speak or hear

in a common tongue.

Language

is lost to them now.