by Charles Byrne

wind pares the granite corners of blacknight
midtown, carves my lungs, clips
the ones and zeros of your breath
in my ear as i press the phone more tightly,
picturing the span and truss of your lips,
the gaps in your breath little deaths in the line.

at my desk, the screen’s lantern glow,
the fixed conveyance of its lines,
the blinking x and blinking o
impassive as the prairie cow.
o, i long for the cut of your pen,
the paper’s salt and scent of your hand,
the blood-blue sway of your script
as you tire, now bluestem in the wind.