Everyone meets online now. The skin
of the screen responds to your touch,
your sentience sent, delivered, read.
Swipe up on your tears and smile.
Sunlight on the elms, laughter
out of season: The work of love is done
remotely, a quantum entanglement
of limbs. Strangers stare
at laptops in apartments on
the opposite ends of history.
We are kites without strings, strings
desperate to be strummed, sound holes
listening for gooseflesh on the far
end of the wind tunnel
between any two human beings.
You can’t trust someone’s profile pic,
but if you listen to the ancients,
we weren’t better off with faces. Blow me
a kiss, and the ghost city I am
dismantles like a dandelion clock.
Press a button here, and on another
continent, the pictures hang crooked.
You don’t have to attend in person
to your own hands-free attempts at love
and war and art. There are no
fingerprints on anything we make.
Don’t get too attached.