On Not Buying a Cell Phone

Late snow a re-snow,

callback, comeback, return by way

of a vanishing point,

blossoms in the pear tree re-doubled,

amplified, spring recused,

on hold, conferenced out

as I enter the cell phone store.

I'm wondering if I buy a phone

will there be a new set of people to call.

For sixty dollars

you can have the whole country.

By contract

crouch in the dark hall

calling for a consultation with California.

The snow-that doesn't pick up-

is falling as we speak. It's April,

that ugly little month, so characterless

and snappy, such a ukelele playing

inutile month, wallet stuffed

with IDs, a sap. And snow

and cellular distractions

meaningless against the large psychological

questions. What

of a tendency toward bombast,

and the vast promisings

and the late night ineffectualisms,

the sordid vague confessions

in person denied? What to address,

what coordinates give in the health food store

among the whispery silky milks, the pressings

from peas and pears and

squeezings of grape and obscure

Ethiopian legumes,

the earth wringings

sweat of melon and leakage

from the side of China? Still

it's snowing, still the tremor

and the crashing in the heart, and what to say.