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.