4 million pens and a pencil picked me out of a crowd.
I was not in a line up but they were aligning and the lines they drew
made a net and only one line could be erased.
I walk that line because I love the soft graphite path.
The path is in the internet of calling.
Granted, the information can be static, stored
in those warehousing machines on some piece of land.
But don’t be fooled by the ones and zeros,
their apparent conformity,
their nesting among themselves but not touching.
They vibrate to get close.
They send off signals, tiny as they are.
They go out at night in a tribe called 10,
and have such legs as wolf calls can’t even.
You did not know that shimmying was the love of your hard drive.
Go home.
Something in the inbox of your pillow vibrates
just before dawn and you won’t remember that is
why you woke up in love.