Our phone conversations
Are religious
Banquets of words
Wrapped in ceremonial silk
Each syllable
A romantic conspiracy
A merge proposal

Receiver hangs limp
In my hand
Televising your voice
Into a naked sculptor
That creates me
From amniotic clay

Phone cord
Hugs my thigh
Like your lock of hair
A ritualistic twig
Fragrant with incense

The phone is possessed by GOD

Banal chatter
Expands into opera
Your tongue spins
Shapeless dialogue
Into pottery

Our discussions are
Fragile, Delicate
Vulnerable to any missiles
That might destroy
Our verbal cathedrals

We sop up each other's souls
From grammatical dishes
Engraved with Plato's alphabet

TALK, TALK, TALK
MORE, MORE, MORE

Build a paradise of sound
A palace in my ear
Like a spider spinning
Its diabolical canvas
For its dinner

This palace
Will spread its alabaster corridors
Through my head
Clap its winged archways
Around my brain
Excavate any hateful corpses
That harbor in its foundation

And fill me with a euphoria
Which is you