senses
live on dots
three,
next to one another with nothing in between,
but the what holds them together
(a gushing thought someone had)
is pressed between our lives
could call them
bullet holes
without the wall to grip the circle shadows,
yet they do leave
cold tappings in the air
could call it
a wrong number
with no other end for the receiver
just a hang-up,
the coiling tone wrapped around
the hold
sit waiting
with a cigarette butt in the background
and the handkerchief of smoke lifting away,
oh magic
dial
pointing
-
unfortunately can only see you
after you are drawn,
but i'm trying before
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