Recall
Maybe a pay-phone in France
would still reach you;
in the South; in the third
or second life. Still then
as a teenager, bloodless
and senseless, skidding
another riven diagram
into the dust. Now even
staggered into fake quietude
I can’t believe there is
no causeway to the dead.
Why should there not be.
I know it is just a zip
in circumstance. Tending June’s
snow driven to musk
and peachlit common rain.
I would rather be studding euros
into a slot, sighing and missing
my tether for living.