328 Readings


Since we uploaded into the cloud
the earth misses us
It hasn’t rained for months

The sleek new skins of our hand-
held devices flash
like the blank face of the lake

We go down to it and bathe 
in its shades: gin clear   fluorescent grey


Sometimes we float 
bumping along shoulder to shoulder

in a simulacrum of friendship
in the blue

Is that you?

Seen and unseen

like a Ghost Man on second
like an underage labor camp

If we’re not in it
where are we?


All our campfire girls
All our drowned fuselages and kelped wrecks
All our pine pollen soft parades

Our mouthfuls and gulped breaths
How many gigabytes is that?


Sometimes we float in it almost
bodiless lost in the flickering 
voices that will never save us

even with all that
value added


The touchscreen technician 
who assembled and wiped 
to a delicate sheen 
our smartbook faceplate

Her little hands are ruined 
by the solvents
by the rhythms

so we can share 
with smudgeless clarity


Like little cones 
raining from the pines

teenaged girls drop from factory eaves

Circles touching circles
spreading across faces

Yours   mine   theirs

We take and we take and we tag


On the lakeshore a mother mallard 
nestles into needles to make her 
home above rocks

where a boy with a stick 
is sure to find her

Where is your warm hand 
for my hand?    

Posted 05/09/14
This poem originally appeared in Blackbird (vol.13, no.1).
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