...they met him in kingman arizona, as it was once whispered. dimes, nickels, old buttons rattling in pockets, in fists, in the mouth of old winds. we forget their names, his name, this name, these skin polished numbers, jambed wet, sticky with summer sun. how many stories must we devour over these plastic receivers. numbers long forgotten, misdialed gods, vagabonds marinating in roadside, sliver of night light. stars made to blind the lost. lost calls. some ghosts call late.
