The net contains the sky.
It is more than that:
The net impresses itself on the sky
And prevents it from getting in.
The sky wants in: the cons want out
– Some of them – others can’t handle it.
On the out, their women are like clouds,
They create wonderful shapes for themselves
And then evaporate. And yes,
We pride ourselves that we are not amputated
From the eyes down or glued
To some remorseless, telling screen.
Our screens are interactive.
And yet, we are hooked, online,
Caught in the net: it’s a dragnet,
Where, like fish, we flap
Against each other vainly,
Since we’re not actually there.
We’re each in our own small cell,
Imprisoned in a place
Where people don’t break up,
Where they don’t even meet.
They make love through the cloud,
Then simply delete.
(Read this and other poems in From Inside – a new collection to be published by The High Window Press in March 2017)