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from COOS & ONS:

Genesis of the Telephone
 
I have to plan very far
in advance before delivering
a sentence
 
The bones in my body are set
aren’t ready for grandeur
of phrase--
 
That is an order, no
that is a confluence of letters
 
A hot can in my chest again
 
an Oregon trail--
 
I wear Sunday like a mission
spread loose the word God
blurted that night he confused
his friends with the dead
 
Cutting stars into piles--
triangles, bad directions