are always trying to pull this world tight,
bale us with wire,
place us into a spastic nerve barn.
The power lines keep good company, hanging
about with trees, connecting
to cathedrals and their vision,
inviting to birds and their twitter.
Four lines high, they disguise
a musical staff,
only to break the view at the window.
On a barren day
they tell us that we are happy
and we believe them.
Though these body snatchers
override the heart–
weighted down by a barrage of papers,
each a stone tablet,
the power lines make a playground
of the office. Telephones
hang from our ears, pencils lose
their hulls to make a point.
They rise through the hum of the computer,
lending a false sense of brightness,
which heightens the bluster
in our fingertips,
so that at night our loving is electric.
We feed out data in our embrace
like what spare part our body wants,
until at the hospital
our hearts are hooked to suction plates
and a monitor, which takes
the last of us so there’s no beat at all,
not even one last song in the heart,
nothing to glean
as the lines humor themselves,
reflect upon the heart,
under the guise of refinement
move flatly, sedately across the screen.