TO POEM OR,
TODAY YOU'RE LIKE A PHONE I ALMOST DON'T ANSWER
21 feet high in
Philadelphia, the
no poem deep
quiet, the
February snow
peeling away. I'm
sitting near glass
pulled into sun, into
this poem
somehow far
off un-
real like those
roofs down there, the
small cars. Poem,
you're like a
phone I almost
don't answer
putting its mouth
on me, a
voice I'd been
looking for and then
half avoided
Meet me in an hour
It's always yes
—Lyn Lifshin