I imagine you
at the end of the line, your ear
cupped close to the receiver, a bud
on the cusp of bursting from sound.
And sounds skitter like birds
tumbled from a high wire, like spiders
shaken from slumber with the sudden
snap-open of umbrellas.
The syllables I form with my mouth,
you send back as slightly misshapen
echoes— as if a child tried to turn
a page with sticky fingers.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.