Into the mouths of payphones

Night after night through cities and villages

she says his name:

Amsterdam, Namur, in Paris,

Sagres, Ronda, San Sebastien and Anglet

Hallo, ist — zu Hause?


Berlin, near the defenseless wall

he stops coming to the line altogether.


Poppy seeds fallen from a cake of rye.

Auf wiedersehen, toward the plains.

A light like kasha, cracked and reddish.


There is no film but her memory, electric sigh

of a train on its groove:

Her naked feet find his in an apartment kitchen —

Canada, the island in summer

                                           kettle’s hallelujah

                                           faucet composing eighth-notes

                                           bee’s fat drift to patio screen.


How it looks back,

the wind, folded through a tunnel.


The stone of his absence and how long she has held it.

She will not find him in this country.

Onion-flower globes, mauve in the fields.

Not this.