Telephones
You live in a Motown snowglobe
a January whiteout a ballet of bobbing traffic lights
I have an unnatural summer birthday
on an expanse of volcanic sand beside the Tasman Sea
You search out sharper details
he's afraid of daddy long legs and he smells like melted ice
I have new words that don't reach you
lollies and gumboots and one for the way the sun leaps up all at once, sheepish
You will be married on an island
of forgotten fish bowls with wild deer for witnesses
I would wait in the woods in my red sea rig
but red ribboned trees only worry about the tomorrow that cuts us off
When you hear my voice but can't taste my breath
it's not 'death do us part' it's just these telephones
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