Cold Call. Luke Heeley

In the nightbound house, a phone rings.
It startles a puff of spores
from an orange whitening in the bowl.

Reverse charges from another spiral arm:
a voice without a body wants to talk,
it’s asking for your middle name.

The stars are sending a message
but their morse code will take
an accordion of universes to complete.

And when you throw your voice
through the open window, it too
will perish before it can reach

the one at the end of the garden
hunting by torchlight for the root of his tongue.