Classic Poem

I will dial the zero then,
the bubble, call-letter of foam,
and see if Aphrodite answers
or someone calling me home

or the Captain of the Whales. . . . How
many phones are unlisted there
in the restricted venues
of crusted carronades
and spilled moidores. . . .

I've a friend who owns one.
Bought at the border. Beautiful
spiral white horn. Cordless. Dial-less.

Pick it up and you hear a sound
with the whole of the sea in it —
the sonars of the whales quaking
the lengths of meridians,
the day of the Foam-Born
when the tides turned salt with tears;

the prolonged monosyllable
of Time — that NOW
whose O is the turning world.