A Prose Poem by Anon ymous
I miss dial tones, the last echo of voice as the line hums. I miss the tactile sensation of maps; creases and folds that mark our progress [our regression], where we have been [where we wish to go]. If you were French I would kiss your neck, feel the tumble of leaves, watch as they flutter to the ground [you are freckled]. If you were German I would run my palm over your calf; watch you Dietrich your way down Kurfurstendamm. [You are a day that stirs]. Listen: the steady ring of a telephone [anticipation]; we’re back on dry land.