a cover to keep
the cusp
a humming coil of static
tucked behind an ear
the last words are clipped
they cling, they stir
they choke
within a cloud who cannot adjust
to soak up the volume
of anything else but the weight
of an object held in awkwardness
when a burst of crickets breaks behind the mast
a lonely white buffalo
haunts the space between each breath–
a space we’ve always carried
but somehow never open.
and above our heads
there hangs a love
that has yet to be decoded
a pair of pearls
rattles inside
a tin can telephone.
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