Yes, your fingers through darkness are
dialing this old rotary phone, yes, that purring whirl,
the disk spinning, yes, past numbers, yes, a
lit elevator set on reaching the right floor…
Yes, already your voice, yes, nectar pouring over,
liquid butterscotch soft, as you stand, yes, in
the distance, mouth shadowing the receiver &,
yes, those holes where, yes, breath travels
resonant as a shell pressed to one’s ear…
Such wavelengths are feel-able, yes, wisps
of incense gently bouncing against skin, yes,
schools of fragrance, each with a particular
taste, hue, texture, yes, the very air is filled
with their volume, yes, presences of whispers
flickering like quicksilver…
Reel the threads to me, yes, an invisible cable
spooling whirls through the night.
At last sound is touch, yes, porpoise-warm &
surfacing, yes, from strange water depths.
Love, yes, what you are is
a friendly primeval being calling my name
beyond rings, yes, there where we swim
blinking neon to then ascend, yes, yes,
lucent bubbles now one
Stephen Mead is an Outsider multi-media artist and writer. Since the 1990s he’s been grateful to many editors for publishing his work in print zines and eventually online. He is also grateful to have managed to keep various day jobs for the Health Insurance. Find out more at Poetry on the Line, Stephen Mead.
Foxglove Journal 