CJ Evans
Pull up your coverlet to conceal
the invading volume of the modern.
It whips into us from over the wires—
so many useless ones and zeroes,
so much flash and flicker, so many
chimes, recaps, and real-time
responses. The wants we’re handed
are ever-quickening, and we’ve lost
sight of the rails as they split
further from the parallel. Our connection
to the horizon has been severed.
We’ve forgotten magic, that low-watt
porchlamp that shatters the night
into millions and millions of moths.