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Description
It happened slow, but I’m sure
the world started to shrink.
The oceans have dried into puddles,
sky-scrapers come up to your knees.

These days the whole blind earth fits
soft and easy in your palm.
We touch everything.  We see everything.  It’s subtle
but life’s littler than it ever was.

At first, I admit, I was happy.
But as the weeks drew on I grew bored.
Bored bored bored.  There was nothing denied.
There was nothing given.

And every day the awful industry of hands
crafted a thousand and one wonders,
rivals for the attentions of the stars
greater than the glories of mountains or books.

And every night the current ran through
six billion electric filaments lighting
the world.  As if it were the force of lightning
caught in six billion beads of dew.

There’s no place to run to anymore…
nothing to do but to pledge myself monastic
to these books, to the study
of those few found wonderments that littletimes strike us….

Let’s escape.

Through your window
the dull portrait
of our world reduced
to pencil shavings and computer keys.

We leave.  There is more.
There is so much more than I could have ever imagined.
Down the roads,
which are ribbons, unfurling, unwrapping the continent

that is ours, unknowable.
But we know it.
Deeper than study – we know it – it’s in our flesh.
We travel on until we break the spell of horizon.

A new world opens up before us.
We are in love, and old, our bodies are stone.
We are in love, our flesh filled to burst with life.
There is nothing denied our youth.

If only….
Yet we rest in the same
narrow world.  I am in love again,
but silent.

The windows, too, are silent.
The books have always been silent – they are leaves, not tongues.
They’re numb.  The only things that dare speak
are the cars outside grumbling of roads beyond.

How can things stay like this?
So little?  To rot?

Come with me, then
sometime when we’re both free
and we have enough hope
to break the world open.

Description
It happened slow, but I’m sure
the world started to shrink.
The oceans have dried into puddles,
sky-scrapers come up to your knees.

These days the whole blind earth fits
soft and easy in your palm.
We touch everything.  We see everything.  It’s subtle
but life’s littler than it ever was.

At first, I admit, I was happy.
But as the weeks drew on I grew bored.
Bored bored bored.  There was nothing denied.
There was nothing given.

And every day the awful industry of hands
crafted a thousand and one wonders,
rivals for the attentions of the stars
greater than the glories of mountains or books.

And every night the current ran through
six billion electric filaments lighting
the world.  As if it were the force of lightning
caught in six billion beads of dew.

There’s no place to run to anymore…
nothing to do but to pledge myself monastic
to these books, to the study
of those few found wonderments that littletimes strike us….

Let’s escape.

Through your window
the dull portrait
of our world reduced
to pencil shavings and computer keys.

We leave.  There is more.
There is so much more than I could have ever imagined.
Down the roads,
which are ribbons, unfurling, unwrapping the continent

that is ours, unknowable.
But we know it.
Deeper than study – we know it – it’s in our flesh.
We travel on until we break the spell of horizon.

A new world opens up before us.
We are in love, and old, our bodies are stone.
We are in love, our flesh filled to burst with life.
There is nothing denied our youth.

If only….
Yet we rest in the same
narrow world.  I am in love again,
but silent.

The windows, too, are silent.
The books have always been silent – they are leaves, not tongues.
They’re numb.  The only things that dare speak
are the cars outside grumbling of roads beyond.

How can things stay like this?
So little?  To rot?

Come with me, then
sometime when we’re both free
and we have enough hope
to break the world open.