This Morning You Texted Me

Years ago there was a normalcy
we documented. The theater

rife with real life. Now
the beacon: a speck

of light on an electronic
device. So cyborg. Brain connected

to a netherworld of litigious
desire, purple forest of thirst

in the leaves. I am allergic
to attachment, instead a soft clay

to be passed
on the highway, tires

roaring toward
a familiar entryway.


(originally published in Fleas on the Dog, Spring 2020)

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