Author Archives: Timothy P. Schilling

Actual mail and land lines

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I know. But still

when I called I could see you there.

Our voices traveled intact,

they weren’t disintegrated

and reconstructed by Scotty

at the bridge. Mine came to you

through a walkable wire —

I could follow it from my house

to yours — and yours didn’t move —

and I could see you there

in the angle of light in the hall.

I had all that  that was solid. At least

that much of the picture was clear.

Long slow fall

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The boy in the window

where the sun is shining

does not see me.

Nor does he hear

the leaf blower. (I’d like

not to, too, even if

it’s electric.)

There’s skittering and

a bird I don’t know

and more in the time

that this happened.

In that long slow fall

you could almost —

you almost thought the cold

would never come.