I hear the phantom ding of unsent texts
Break through the noiseless overquiet night.
My mind, in excess hopefulness, elects
To take the moment when I'm out of sight
Of any indication of your word
To prompt me with false indicators of
What, I must believe, I might have heard.
It is the siren call of distant love,
And though I stop my ears with wax, it chimes
For it is no vibration in the air,
Metered by earthly distances and times,
But mindful hearing, which, by dint of care,
Hears what has not yet happened, and ensures
The care by which it operates endures.
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