What is the sound of parallel lines? A 

scientist might know but I know every crease of my hand 

like I know the mountains back home, how they cupped 

me in their solidness, how far I could see from the cliff’s edge, looking over, 

scanning blurred horizons for familiarity—your 

Voice whipped away by the wind against my ear.

They are smaller than a grain of rice (The bones in your ear)

Without them you’re point A 

and I'm point B, there is no line between us. Let's meet at your

place, somewhere between the hour hand and the minute hand.

Every hour they get to meet again, over

and over. Time is so much like water, you can't keep it cupped

Forever. There’s only so much blood. The doctor cupped

my chin and it made me cry when she tucked my hair behind my ear

just so and she didn’t say anything. When it was over

I said thank you and walked out. It costs a hundred dollars a

session just to have someone to listen. Just for someone to hand

you a tissue and send the prescription over to your

Pharmacy, when what you really need is someone to reach into your

chest, to find the epicenter of that ache, that writhing mess, to have it cupped

right out of you. That's what we mean when we say can someone give me a hand?

That's what we mean when we say can someone lend me an ear?

What we mean is a simple diagram: I’m line B and you’re line A.

We go on forever and we don’t know what to do about it. We move over

The horizon and only see more earth, more sky. I'm so over

this parallel existence! I don’t want it anymore, can it be your

turn now? How nice would it be to curl up between those lines, a

space just the right size, and rest. If I were in outer space and I cupped

my hands around my mouth and screamed, it would never reach your ear. 

A sound is emptier than that soundlessness. Climb hand

Over hand into its vastness: there is no light. You can still put your hand

on your nose with your eyes closed. The body finds itself, even over

such distance. Maybe if I keep shouting, that sound will reach your ear

eventually. Maybe our lines will meet. Maybe orbiting the same star is enough, your

path solitary. We don't need to build rockets. Here we are cupped

Close by the atmosphere where the stars and planets wind around us: a

Miracle, if you believe in such things. God is reaching out a hand

to yours but they haven't touched yet, cupped chapel ceiling watching over,

Hymns still ringing in a seashell when you press it to your ear.