After Calling Too Many Poets, the Telemarketer Gives Up

I've tried to speak like them, with teeth of ash or blood or some baseless patter, alone on my balcony, my voice big as bone— more deep, more long than on the phones, its reach a branch to heaven far from here. That's not right either. I've tried their voices, tried to boost my numbers, tried to close so many sales with mystery dressed as theirs. They have no ears, I've found. I speak to fleshy heads, to skin taut where it should part to listen— the mind a ready plot where seeds can slough their coats and words, like rain, delight. I've tried their suit of sound: ill-fitting, slick-sheened, too tight.