Hullo

The word, the stone, the ringing phone, the part of me that wants to be alone, the vow of silence in the reeds; God descends in ravenese. The vinegar tasters dip their fingers, make their faces: stoic, bitter, strangely sweet. The seeker leaves for Bangladesh, the prophets check for signs of theft, the singers sing for what is left. The children breathe. Come of age. Search the faces for a taste of what's to come: the widening road, the row your boat, he choked with weeds, the rabbit hole. This holding on. The word, the stone, the ringing phone. The part of we that answers when alone.