Dream of the Phone Booth

My story’s told in the mis-dial’s hesitance & anonyms of crank calls, in the wires’ electric elegy & glass expanded by the moth flicker of filament. I call a past that believes I’m dead. On the concrete here, you can see where I stood in rust, lashed to the grid. On the corner of Pine & Idlewood, I’ve seen a virgin on her knees before the angel of a streetlight & Moses stealing the Times to build a fire. I’ve seen the city fly right through a memory & not break its neck. But the street still needs a shrine, so return my ringing heart & no one to answer it, a traveler whose only destination is waywardness. Forgive us our apologies, the bees in our bells, the receiver’s grease, days horizoned into words. If we stand monument to anything, it’s that only some voices belong to men.