You’re at the wrong end
of a telephone line that begins at my mouth.
You’re at the wrong end of a phone line
that dives under the streets of Lincoln
runs beside farmer’s rows quilted into the country,
each square a different textile
each road sign a textual reminder of distance
above houses painted thirty years ago
and not since
antennas dangling off the roofs
like misfired lighting bolts from a god
who hates the Midwest more than I.
You’re at the wrong end of a phone line
that intersects the Continental Divide somewhere.
Because it must.
And where it does I wonder
if there are wildflowers growing where no one sees
if roads avoid it because it’s just too holy
if the air smells more like honey
or more like you.
I wonder if, standing there, I could
see California but not quite your front door.
I wonder if when God has the hiccups
he goes to that spot and sees the view
and listens to our phone conversation
buzzing beneath his feet
and every muscle in his body relaxes.
You’re at the wrong end of a phone line
that joins other phone lines, separates,
then joins again.
Our conversation meets other voices
and passes them unmarred.
Our words are that hard.
You’re at the wrong end of a phone line
that sleeps in the ground with dead men
winding up their spines and past their ears
and broadcasting on channels they can hear
This is life. This is life.
We’re too young to fall asleep.
This is life.
You’re at the wrong end of a phone line
that knows to stop at your ear.
And I know that ear is connected
to a face that is the outward expression
of a soul I’ve grown used to holding.
I’ve held it in springtime in my hammock.
I’ve held it praising God.
I’ve held it in a crowded apartment
full of people who know everything about love.
I’ve held it in the playground and
I’ve held it in the best room
of the worst motel in the Midwest.
Know that when I say “I miss you”
my words have seen the world
in order to get there.
