Phone Call One Poem by Ayla Sander

Phone Call One



Chattering.

It hurts.

Burn the ear.

Tighten the chest.

Wrack the mind.

Raze the soul.

Though.

Chattering.

Muffled—intercepted—diluted.

The message carries still.

Clear.

Loud.

Precise.

Without buffer.

Without deaden.

Her Chattering.

Ayla Sander
Saturday, October 20, 2012
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Poems By Ayla Sander
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Phone Call Two
Phone Call One
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