poring over ourselves at the
turn of midnight
our fingers brush our sleep exhilarated words
as they form a fragile strip of sound between us through the
air of our telephones
and the secrets that
pass through the wires over the highways
we do not have to travel
to speak

the night pulls out words we have been afraid to say
out loud and to ourselves (that we have buried)
and pushes them into air shaky and wobbly (but in the cold
existence of the buzz and the soft
shoulder of facial anonymity they will breathe fine)
they will pick themselves up
and dust off the worry
in these late conversations
i never want to end