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My Poem

The whirring of the CPU
and the drumming of rain
metallic splashes on slate, red brick.
it's always the same, but
old sounds don't seem to evanesce.

brick red? even if i think those things
uncommitted, white paper grain
cartridges filled to the brim with
liquid black, a bubble of air
behind a damp glass window, trapped

somehow i know those thoughts
are important, but it's not enough
unable to commit - there is no bridge.
Broken connection between action and desire
let alone build, it's hard to break that glass.

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