I call numbers I know have been long disconnected,
transported a moment in time to earlier days of anticipation,
awaiting Hello on the other end of the phone,
hoping – perhaps praying – that this time the call goes through.

I am willing to concede all grips on reality, to assume my rightful place
in past days that by all rights should be gone. Such is the price I would pay
to cut to the back of the queue.  No space-time-continuum snob am I.

I am confident I could handle the division of flows, the bifurcation of my fate;
it would be fun to watch fortune tellers wreck their minds
on the lifelines of my palms.

Chagall 2018

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