Night Gardening by Michael Palmer
A reader writes to complain
that there are no cellphones in my poems,
so here is one,
its body chrome,
its face a metallic blue.
It’s neither transmitting nor receiving.
A woman from Duluth requests
that I cease sending secret messages
to her in my poems.
This I will do forthwith.
And the blackbird at evening.
She says, You have misrepresented the river
there where it turns