Aerial

Far out along a county road
from pole to pole of yellow pine
catenaries bear the load,
the twisted pairs of tip and ring
connecting ear to anything.
I hear you humming through the line.

In blazing summer heat, each pole
emits the smell of creosote,
a stain distilled from wood or coal,
a tarry whiff of single malt
as dry as splinters, sprayed with salt,
that lingers in the eyes and throat.

Resinous and leathery
with animalic undertones,
the smell preserves in memory
spars and rigging, wood and wire,
an armature of quick desire
that runs for miles between two phones.

Given shape by tongue and lip,
a disembodied voice comes through:
You call this a relationship?
I hear the click of glass and think
you must be at a kitchen sink.
I’m in Salina. Where are you?

Clouds pile up. The evening cools.
Soft lightning flares far out at sea.
Ceramic insulator spools
prevent your voice from leaking down
the poles and seeping underground
until the call’s end sets you free.