notMetaphor Poetry phone


minutes stretch between words

motion sublimated to sound

you breathe as one not living


distance becomes anticipation

your voice lingers at the speaker; an echo






somewhere there is life

across your door, a window

and there my ears see the mockingbird

in the liquid amber I once climbed for you

as a child


and I dare not speak to you of it

time is short—

my throat burns

with nervous words


you are so quiet