I hunt a coven of poets that meets
in kindly Christian Science reading rooms
but my small-town street is different now.  

Buildings are demolished, replaced by a
Presbyterian church big as Walmart,
compound and complex as a honeycomb.  

In one cell, the coven is convening.
I want to phone and tell them that I’m coming
if they phone back to tell me where to be.  

A helpful girl recites the phone number 
but I will type at least one digit wrong –
I’m still learning to read and write in dreams.