This is not what it means to read in bed, telephone gripped
in my sweating palm, electronic stimulation, each text dripped into me,
stroking my insides.
Who is on the other side?
I see the face because some come with images, but not at all
the face I recall.
There is something different in this look, and the world
shifts, moving up and down, in and out, until I’m near seasick.
There is something primitive in all this, stripping away all
the unnecessary formalities.
Each message like a bulletin to some great event I am
witnessing from a distance and yet touches me deeply like an electric shock.
I lose reason and panic.
This is not at all what I intended, even if in some deep
sense is it something I need.
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