LIKE A LAMB
They would answer us if only
they knew our names. The glimmer
threaded through phone lines, spools
and spools of wire. Our numbers rifle.
They file them away. We could go riding
but then we could not pretend
the story ended anywhere other
than a sort of taming, braids
and boxes made for captives.
When they call us, it's as though
their voice is made of worms
and all our longings dirt.
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