Collection Call

The Phone in the "containment office" rang.

The door wasn't supposed to be open.

That phone had never rung before.

It had never been answered before.

It had never been connected before. It was.

Sent clarion-call a tone that rippled down the line.

Lodi was the first to feel static in his blood.

A coin had fallen through, a dial cycled.

It rang like choked breath drowning.

He Answers.

There is white and gold plastic in his hand.

There is his hand and there is plastic, and they are one.

There is flesh on the line. Entwined with copper.

There is a wail, like a reaching signal. Chords taut, like cable.

There is a pupil in each eye, bisected, and bisected again, to see the breadth of probability.

There is a man in a mirror of black ink. Words yet spoken and spoken already.

There is a corpse wrapped in flowing iron and cold clay. Decay is decay is decay.

There is a globe of life and wash beneath, falling, ripping out inversely.

There are the viscera of unmaking, hand-in-hand with the awareness of knowing.

There is a gasp of pain ringing in newborn cry.

He Answers.

There will be a death and rebirth. Rupture and rapture.

There will be an answer before the question.

There will be effect before cause.