Now the crucifix holds up 
the telephone lines
while you thumb through
the pouring static

           Foxtrot
                             Romeo
                                                Echo
                                                            Echo

Your mother tongue blurred to pixels
filling radio noise
between the music and the violence
between John Lennon and his bullet

	                                     Tango
                             Hotel
          Echo

Now we televise the dreamers
until we are lovers
and stalkers, all

Blackbirds
or Bluegrass

When I picture the singer
their mouth is frozen screaming
either way, we will choose sound
so long as it fills the air

like how missing
and wanting
both fit onto poster prints

             Lima
                          Oscar
                                             Victor

                                              Echo
                          Romeo
             Sierra

While the satellites
may bring their diseases
or hold voicemails
for your grief

The talk show host
spills through your speakers
on Monday or Mayday

giving you Morse code confessions
from the top of the towers
or the last violin
from the lower deck

his lavender voice
chokes through your speakers
mentioning the wars, or his wife’s birthday

when he’s certain you’re listening
he’ll weep and stretch his arms

“take your hands off the wheel
and hold me"