Monday Poem

Jim Culleny

Your voice on the telephone
is sugar to my ears.

Your electric breath nudging magnets,
eating miles as it comes —
meeting relays, swelling,
exciting antennae…

Your voice runs with light.

It enters at absurd gates
convoluted to catch frequencies
of love and death; appendages
that on my young freshcut head
once stood out like pink wings.

Now on this motel phone
buried in blankets they catch you,
or what of you electricity brings.

Geography disappears.

Squeezed to bits by chips
you come juice sweet, and ease
through the earpiece of this