How linear, this world,
begged from the simplest calculation,
its roadways, its grocery aisles,
the hedgerows, the endlines and midlines
of playing fields, rows and rows of text
streamed point-to-point and cascading
over the spare-lit screen of a tiny device
in my hand . . .
How deeply round your eyes;
They capture the fleeting essence
of this moment; here; me.
A straight line cannot envelop, only
provide the barest definition
. . . I know you want your freedom,
yet what value is unearthed from
Copyright 2013 by Michael Marsters.
All rights reserved.