The Telephone

“a startling alarm—
only to advance the plot.”
—David Trinidad, “Black Telephone,”
The Best American Poetry 2010

The plot thickens—
I’ve got James Merrill and
David Jackson on the line.
The two Ouija queens babbling
Just like Wystan Auden did.

The black telephone—
It may be off the hook.
But the voices are still
Worming their way thru.
Oh dear, what am I to do?

Big Daddy’s on the prowl—
The dead are born again.
We die with the dying,
See, we depart, and yet
Here we are again!

The Telephone connects—
Much better than Tarot.
The yew trees blow at night
Like hydras beneath the moon.
Little fugues are fuckers.