POEM OF THE DAY
Phone Sex
The blue, black wine
crushed out of your absence
drips like blood
into this opera,
my brain,
where the trickster shaman
has trepanned my skull
to let in the evil spirits.
Your voice like a chrisom cloth
is the stanch
of this wound.
The lovers enter, with flourish of trumpets,
to the overture of satellites—
Phones cradled between ear and shoulder,
two lonesome coyotes
yodeling loony tune arias
arpeggio and fortissimo,
below open, empty windows—
Such canticles we sing
over this stain.
Dana Pattillo, 1997
(PoD 38)
7:53:10 AM 
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