in the weeks that follow
we will only make love
in dreams-

but i will hear your voice again,
not canned, not through static,
clear and natural,
away from all
electricity,
and we will throw our telephones
into the creek
where they will become
ducks, and
we will feed them bread
that we pull from the tree
on the hill, bread like
leaves and
the ducks will swim to us and
we’ll see them from underneath the
surface of the creek,
and we will breathe the
water into our gills and the ducks and
the turtles that had been
our shoes will give us
a wide berth and we
will make love until
we wake
up.