First off, my poem only shuffled the
deck chairs of the digital. Perfect
pixel smear into e-waste. No geography
except streets, wires, toxic dumps, etc.
Like a modernist sympathizing battery
fire, my poem got sunburned by all these
transatlantic cables. My poem doesn’t
internet date. My poem yawns and retires.
I’d rather configure rain storms a drop at a
time. Or play Candy Crush. Same same.
As the sun sets across the English Bay oil
slick, I’d rather go for a coffee with you.
