It is quiet on my
blank little
screen, like an oceanful
of your morning
whispers nobody hears,
not for lack
of listening. Bridges are
hard
work, not heart work, not
following sprawling arterial
webs, not finding locks or chains on despair
dampening toasted slices, not
the best thing
since. Steam, or sky, or
siren: we can squeeze nectar from
any of these straight into our little bottle-
cap world, feathered clock faces
be damned, not for drinking but for
serving, for storing, safe in
giant server
farms pumping fragile streams to the under-
world. Conversions. The legs on my
legs, the birthday hoopla, the
frizzy electrical impulses.
“Need this,” they chant. And,
obediently,
we do.
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