In the mini screen, the ware, the pod, the e-very thin

things, we click. Send and receive, caress in 8 point.

Text me, don’t text me. No plan. Call me, no, no land. No

line between us. We connect through the space that breaks,

unpauses—What? No, you go first. We touched. Encoded

and pulsing—trolls of the personalized play, hands-free in

the flowless waves. Check. Did-you-check. I can’t Open. Mini-

mize unopened attachments. Get higher in the definition, be half-mute-love

moving the bar. I-can’t-hear-you. You’re-on-the-what? I’m

home, which could be anywhere. I’m around the corner. Oh, there

you are. Hang on, I’m shutting. Flipped. Topped. Everything’s cheap now, we sing

to ourselves. Hum, tap, chat it alone. Load me up. Things have never been things,

things are better between us, so let me know when

you’re free.