I am waiting for news at the end of the world
in a high place surrounded by clouds
where the snow falls upwards.
My ears are radar dishes
straining into space
to catch the quiver of dead sounds.
As if there’s a sacred resonance where everything
that has happened is still happening
and if I listen hard enough I can get there.
My tongue is a tree
that grows with the insistence of shark teeth
and green things towards the sun.
The end of the world isn’t far enough away.
There are always new heights to taste
and beyond every cloud is more sky.
So moulded to my own ends,
is it any wonder these changed ears and tongue
can no longer understand or be understood?
The signal comes and is misinterpreted.
The answer is given and all the letters are wrong.