And as I left the message
I realised that you
were probably already
dead – a fact my voice
seemed to know before I
did as it dropped 
right down 
and started slow to speak 
– a strange tone, very
slow and uninflected
as if an arrow could fly
with a heaviness
but straight, knowing 
exactly as it moved
through a long blackness –
it knew, for example,
not to say
Happy New Year,
how in the not saying 
the truth rang clear:
that there’d be no year
or month or even a week,
that you’d had your day
and your soul had outrun
you in the night, was in 
the running now forever,
something my voice
seemed to know before I 
did when it stopped, 
hung up
and didn’t say goodbye

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