Phone Line

 (No access to instruments of any sort)

I tap into a telephone line, hear about your life, tapped in the high wire,
Pigeon shit hits the branch where I sit,
I absorb the negative space and I listen in.

Guidewires poles and bare oak trees:
Silhouettes of linear beauty.
Air up here is pure and fine.
I’m tapped into your phone line.

See the birds and squirrels go by.
Smell their moult among the rotting pine.
I feel rough bark on my behind,
Beneath the sweat and sorrow of my nervous mind.

Guidewires, poles …

To hear your voice makes me feel so pure.
I can’t endure.
When your voice comes out, so soft and slow,
I’ve got to check my balance because it leaves me cold.

Guidewire, poles …