Poetry calls
breathes on the crackly line
through the heavy black hand piece
of this old rotary telephone
As ever, heedless of logistics, timing, money
poetry has no change and
is calling collect, reversing the charges
The charge, always the same, is to
notice
to notice and not know why.
Why this particular tangle
of blue thread, memory, and world?
Puff Of Smoke Poems 