tiny emeralds dot the borderless world. each radio signal a lure: immediate connection, no where too far. Amman Derry Dallas Ramallah Lisbon Buenos Aires Nome. up to the minute news say-so song. Reykjavík Mumbai. hillside village, desert town. green flickers from the tallest tower on a hill, in a field, offshore, on the roof. New York Arles Gulu. AM/FM screaming the pain, impounding the cry where true boundaries splinter, cross, merge, overlap. here barbed wire stitches dissolve. I know geography, waste no time finding Nairobi Xiaan Gander’s green pinholes on the tight knit map. long after he died, I discovered a folded photo in my uncle’s red plaid hunting jacket pocket. I am four, at the kitchen table earmuffed in oversize headphones, concentrating, reaching into shortwave static for the imagined place where a real voice will arch its arrow purposefully into the air, my uncle tuning the dials and me nodding yes or no until the point lands
