Turn off your phone.
Place it, face down,
on cold sandstone: that oxblood-red back-step
she buffed for sixty years.
past the well-kept lawn, its marrow stripes
while radio waves walk through walls,
bark, bone and steel:
congregate to a signal.
Rest your eyes beyond the fence
on the trunks of birch that ebb into the wood.
Feel those white trees breathe.
of branch and leaf may offer some relief.
Whether they do or don't,
after a time you must pick up your phone,
face its empty screen:
turn it on again.
From Staple No 60 (Summer 2004)