Because nobody talks to you
without an agenda of their own,
you listen to me, as I confess
with a certain charm on the telephone.
I prefer to walk down the street
covered in trees and the sun above
clinging in private to thoughts of love.
But when you call, I listen thoughtfully
as if I were composing poetry
and trying to find a plot
in all you say, whether or not
I know you or can see you.
I have finished with my own words
and now yours and the sound of your voice
surround me. How did I find
a way out? I heard you. I was kind.
The wolves and the wild cold,
the sad universe getting old,
Were forgotten. I listened as if
we were both in a small skiff
under the stars on the sea.
At that moment I knew you were listening to me.