I called you. You spoke in fire. I spoke through falling rain. You told me you saw a plastic mess and left it. I told you I grew tree roots from my hands. You informed me of broken china. I informed you I was stuck to the wall with super glue. You notified me through eight books. I notified you through nine, but then you switched to ten. You stomped across your telephone, while I muddled by mine. You gulped oxygen, while I telescoped the window. The sky was lightning. We were the burning meadow below it. You concluded that I never talk. I ended with you never looked. But if you had been the wanderer I thought you were, you would have known my eyes are books and your ears are broken.