Internet Will Save Us

It used to be just books,
parchment and a quill,
perhaps the trunk of an
old oak tree for support

during pauses to reflect
on words, cradling novel’s
spine. This was before the
nothing of everything, lurking

images, news, videos, email,
promising connection to a
world of always distraction,
attempts to evade our depth,

knowing that internet will save
us from ourselves, but the longer
we stare into that flat abyss,
the more we disappear.

Making Sense of Time Passing

Usually the plan is to
read and read and read

the poems of others, until
something strikes my imagination.

This often works, sometimes it is
just a word, like pulsating or

scramble, a pathway to completely
forget that my shoelaces are tied or

that these fingers belong to me.
Lost in the moment, obvious and

unpoetic, then again, also true.
That really so much writing is just

abstract painting, adding color,
a swirl, skip a line, then do it again,

and again, until the crickets outside
sound like laptop keys, and nothing

is lost, not these seconds, not the
clear air of night, not my quiet mind

making sense of time passing,
time passing.