Love the lovely boomerang
remands, in command and countermand,
circumnavigations that sang
exile and reply out of the waiving hand.
The little hertz of heartbeat
(or the singing voice in graph)
so necessary, so obsolete
like the dead’s last telegraph.
Love the lovely boomerang,
mahogany curved bands
in unrequited air hang
mobile—then as if in reprimand
the striped wood taciturn, turns and turns—
to the willing hand returns.