The dead
are on group call
on Zoom and Skype;
ever more faces
leaving holes above the street
and timbres of voices
in my head

I hear voices

I'm attuned to them;
a choir
of friends, acquaintances, relatives

My Self robed
in years and words

The day's finches
on the leafless branches
of winter

Anyone, when here,
is overwhelming;
when gone: An echo,
a few words;
a vacant world
where telephones ring