Frequency

We are fed through power lines
words in a woodchipper
our voices emerge, savagely cut
chunked and piled
on the other side
Filtered through time zones,
sifting exchange rates
placing you in spent hours
spent hours through grey afternoon
a slow twilight and single sky
I have not seen the sea in a million
years, we call it enemy
blame the vast water
the culprit of our crippled we.

I am Pangea longing,
my orphaned shores adrift
distant and jagged
hacked from my breast
stuck in complement
to my shape, skyrose
or deserted, black or tumbled
with an outward tide’s refuse.

then there are the principles of echo
when abyss envelops
your distant voice
when mine turns back,
sharp and how, I wonder,
one learns about the calm
or violence of open water
for that is where our words
and silences hover,
pierced or particled
rising and falling
on the heaving wet lung,
rocked on the turning sea.