Phone Lines

Across the city, the cathedral gathers snow
In the emptiness of towers.
The white juggernaut harnesses the bell
To allot the wind its modest singing.
A bicycle, speeding over ice,
Turns a corner and disappears.
In the world a red pen jots the dead
A note from angels.
No one knows the meaning of this phrase,
But the snow, like a poem or the ashes
Of an effigy swirling through the square,
Is frantically delivering messages
Across the static line
Between your life and mine.

Seth Jani was raised in Western Maine. He is the founder and editor of Seven CirclePress and his own work has been published widely in such journals as Writers’ Bloc, Foundling Review, Hobo Camp Review and Gutter Eloquence. He currently resides in Seattle, WA.

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