phonehome

ghost of payphone

phonehome
Slipping out past parked cars
noisy bars
disconnected payphones
boarded construction zones
wet grass on open toes
sprinklers like rattles
hearts like drums
lit by the stars (those distant suns)
and the clever moon dressed in purples and blues

prayers on our lips
writing new creation myths
skin on wrists, tracing palms and songs
benches are thrones
time lapsed scenes
celestial beams scratch arcs in the sky
like haloed crowns
that expand out past the streets of this town.