A telephone wrenched from the wall

is crouched in the middle of the floor

its roots still intact, but frayed at the ends.

It vibrates when it rings.

Someone from the milky underground

is calling with loam in his mouth:

death has herded him off to the forest,

endlessly pulling him up by the arms

and draping his body over the branches.

Trees everywhere are tearing through

the moon with astronomical speed.

Refugee stars float in the earth's perimeters—

how it is when too many are breathing

into the phone, into the rooms

of those that call for them in dreams.