Or Save It for Later

It’s the 21st century—these poems must
dance, conduct

a four-string quartet, transmit tiny
3D images of a pixelated

soul. They must move
the way they’ve always had to.

Friday Propels

Rain to bring on the heat, beer
to jump start a government
shut down. I could disappear

behind this digital self
portrait that turned out too dark.
Could take another

image to protect myself
from those gray areas—but I like
this shadow kissing my cheek.