T.S.F. (Wireless Telephony)

Over the nighttime precipice of silence
stars emit their programs,
and in the inverse audion of fantasy,
forgotten words
are lost.

                  T.S.F.
                  of sagging
                  steps
                  in the empty
                  shadow of gardens.

The clock
of the mercurial moon
has barked the hour to the four horizons.

                  Solitude
                  is a balcony
                  open to the night.

Just where will the nest
of this mechanical song be?
Insomniac antennas of recollection
collect the cordless
messages
of some frayed farewell.

                  Shipwrecked women
that confused transatlantic
courses;
and voices
of aid erupt
like flowers
on the wires
of international
music staves.

My heart
drowns me in distance.

Now the “Jazz-Band”
from New York;
the synchronous ports are
flourishing with vice
and the propulsion of motors.
Madhouse of Hertz, of Marconi, of Edison—!

The phonetic mind compares
the incidental perspective
of languages.
“Hello—!”

                  A gold star
                  has fallen into the sea.