No more open windows;
            doves call in vain
from telephone wires
            fritzed useless by
storm and progress.
I cannot hear them,
            hermetic and sealed
in this brick room, calling
at spirits who
                        refuse to answer,
long kink of telephone cord
coiled around my wrist,
            receiver a presence
weighting my palm but
unplugged from
            the wall’s dead port.
I am wireless
               or a marionette,
cordless or
            strung, echo or
the echomaker, some shout
            before the cradled phone
falls away, humless.