To call my past selves, I untangle summer from around the old phone.

Down the cord their voices come coiling in 

As they pour tea for the evening and settle into plush chairs.

They talk and talk and we laugh until I ask, What if?

In the receiver, cicadas buzz like static:
we know, we know, we know.

I wonder what it is they know. What I know is that every year

There are more numbers
I could forget and I would writer them down

only to hear if means if someday I dial 
but am afraid of what

many times
I have checked my notes 
a stranger's voice, even after

the night only as long to stay on the line: I beg my selves

to be un-fooled, un-not yet ready 
as it is wise, and I am

go on knowing. 
go on, and the cicadas
dreamed. The hours

What do I know?
My body yawns, placing its faith in the hands of the day.

Image credit: Marius Dzialek