empty phone calls from God &
fly-away page #s

what do you
think when you answer
an empty phone?
a resounding &
unsettling silence 
echoing in the receiver--
do you blame yourself?
do you blame yourself 
for vacancy
& for the books
you open who lose 
their page #s--
each flying
away--
flip each sheet
of paper--
#s swarming
like gnats--
words buzzing 
louder & louder
shut the book
& place it back
on the shelf--
oh & the #s
will haunt you
& your fresh fruit
on the top of
the fridge--
the brown spotted banana 
& the crater-faced
apple 
the phone will ring
& you will 
sprint up from where
you were sitting 
& you will answer 
into a void--
the resonance of
your own silence--
you will ask--
hello
hello hello
is anyone there?
is it god calling
us & leaving
us to listen to 
our own bareness--
he sits there at his great 
big wooden desk--
musty phone book 
without page #s
he turns & turns--
unable to sleep as
he squeezes the sun
in his hand like a stress
ball-- crushing orbit--
clutching
fire-- so soft
in his palms--
he finds my #
purely on a whim 
& dials--
my phone vibrates on
my desk--
it's 11:27 a.m.
& i'm sitting
there trying
to think of
something to write about
other than a boundless
love for the moon--
my books have lost 
their pages #s
& whenever i catch one
wondering across my wall
i grab it & 
seal it in an empty
mason jar in the hopes
of teaching them how
to wear themselves
in a book again 
--on the phone
i ask again
hello
hello hello?
is anyone there?
but i already know
that on the other
line sits
the voice of god-- 
abandoned 
& uninhabited 
i let him 
hang up 
how will you come
back to me without
a page #?