While there is mail there is hope. After we have hung up I can’t recall Your words, and your voice sounds strange Whether from a distance, a bad cold, deceit I don’t know. When you call I’m asleep Or bathing or my mouth is full of toast.
I can’t think of what to say. "We have rain”? "We have snow”?
Let us write instead: surely our fingers spread out With pen and paper touch more of mind’s flesh Than the sound waves moving from throat to lips To phone, through wire, to one ear. I can touch the paper you touch. I can see you undressed in your calligraphy. I can read you over and over. I can read you day after day. I can wait at the mailbox with my hair combed, In my best suit. I hang up. What did you say? What did I say? Your phone call is gone. I hold the envelope you addressed in my hand. I hold the skin that covers you.
