Instead, I get a spring flurry of notes,
electronic molting without
the downy warmth of a voice.

Each shapely hieroglyph hangs
on the warm and singing screen
waiting to be misinterpreted.

The voice isn’t that great of a friend either.
Sure, I can hear a note of fear
or desire, but really,
how does that compare with the orchestra of
the face? I was suspicious of the phone
and embraced e-mail, quicker than love letters,
yet providing time for obsessing and crafting a reply
until my lover wrote.

He can always find a way to say less.