Poem: Calling Radio Moscow

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Calling Radio Moscow

My eyebrows are thin, white and wiry.
Left to themselves they fly askew like drunken antennas
calling Radio Moscow in the night.

My aim is higher, however,
calling God on a regular basis,
listening for a reply.

Today there is radio silence.
That’s the way it is sometimes.
But sooner or later, if I am persistent,

He answers.

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