The Receiver Poem by Eli Spivakovsky

Your Pacific urges,
crack through old technology
marine-drenched cables
and the international telephonic corridors
of epic, sonic, optic rush and pause
conducting and over-lapping,
delaying the sound of rain
in the background
where you live
slowing the drops to a sixth of a second.

And my Atlantic urges,
to say a not yet obsolete
brief prayer or
other kind of
organic weather balloon,
to throw another skipping stone
back through that
creaking hallway of sequences
no longer affected by zone or country,
ascending
from my mouth
to your ear,
bouncing like sonar
on to the firmament,
waiting to be received
in heaven as it is in the ocean:
bound together again
at exactly the same time