THE BOX YOU PUT ME IN
There’s a man whose poverty gives him a typewriter.
Unlike that of the wealthy child, the computed-simulated keys make no sound.
The very rich can experience reality, and of that there’s too much.
I thought you’d know.
Out of habit I place the simulacra on the page.
Only the brownstones are real, and lives
lived in ascending vintage elevators.
I study the blueprints. I’m like a maniac.
The Martian anthem resounds through Café la Douane
as I cross into Switzerland. I put down a poem, and feel lighter.
I want to communicate. Stones like robin’s wings rouging in the afternoon.
Light from the Hudson.
When you pick up a poem you are speaking to the entire English-speaking world.
The telemetry of the Hope Time probe grows weak, its titanium shell
spirals over Broadway in the ecstasy of scientific endeavor (men
are shouting at the consoles.)
I would like to marry a symbol.
Will you be my bride?