These ones and zeros
and bright lights
and burning metals
and glossy screen
and cables and radios
reflect her actions
only her image.

This mobile messenger
or hard-lined herald
our analog love.

She sends her face
to the mountains
to the stars
to infinity.

She sends her voice
back down to me
to this burning metal
to this glossy screen
and I am meant to love it.

Motion and dust
made to touch
to swirl
but made apart
and made to pretend.

For now this will be
our analog love
like ones and zeros
on this glossy screen.



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In aching waves
I fill up.
This wanting glass,
my wanting eye, compiles my composure.
A sick man lives, some good men die.

This inward journey
a passport de rigueur.

Surface area for reactions;
I am made to kiss dirt's feet.

My vision is a watermark--the legs at eye level,
and I feel nothing.

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I would cash up this table
if I could clear it off.
Hundreds of books,
rip to the ceiling,
we've read them all.
Scattered, torn up pieces of paper--
a poem I wrote you.
One shred hugs the ground,
it says "and I'll never stop."
A stack of rotten dishes.
A stack of rotten roses.
My stack of rotting luck.
The living room couch,
our apartment,
a bottle of rum.
This is an impossible table,
always was,
and still an upright one!
It cracks
and I boldly duck.
Down the piles of books,
of movie tickets,
of grocery store shopping bags
comes a clear crystal ball.
It sings pulses of air.
I'm as heavy as the table.
Courage finds me and I face it.
Through the twisted light,
through the clear crystal ball
and see something new.
The table falls.





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