The
phone turns to kilometers
Kilometers
not longer than the distance between words
Words
pile up like carcasses after a massacre
But,
there is no buzzing of the bees
Only
silence
With
the stench of some base frequency audible at times
Like
a distant loudspeaker
Meant
to reach more people than interested
I
open and close drawers
Organizing
things in a neat order
Even
the photo albums
Where
photos are laden with moisture behind cellophane
Rereading
books for underlined words
Hoping
to label each drawer with them
But
everything is a road
Marked
by kilometers
Even
the database of arguments and poetry
Has
a ravine in between
Probably
just the difference of width
Between
the left and right arm’s circumference
Maybe
it is just the probability
Of
someone else answering the phone
Other
than the intended
The
kilometers between the phone and me shrink sometimes
But
the voices have the ambience of large halls
Seething
with distance
All
the high frequencies get lost in transmission
There’s
only the muffled vibration
But,
it is apparent that no matter what the unitary conversion
Space
and time have an unstable equation
The
markers are all fudged
There
remains mere displacement
Kilometers
without any significance
All
that matters is that even though
Earlier
it took more time to reach
With
the coming of the faster line
The
distance only increased
And
the phone fell short in every bit
The
only markers lie
In
the twitch of a muscle
At
the hint of a familiar scent
Or
the pit that appears in the belly
If
its depth can be measured
We
can know how much it really was
The
distance between the two voices on the phone
