all the images have been worn and tossed
onto the bed in a colorful ragged heap, bloodied
and dusty. pens and lenses prostituted their forms
to leering gangs of screens until they weren’t lithe
or momentary enough to perform any longer. their first
birthday lasts a second, picked to death
by a thousand electronic mothers, the cake
dissected by the frenzy until it’s old news, old
NEW! screams the web mob. MORE! full of lust.
Close the screen while you can and open the door. Don’t take a picture of what’s outside. Just savor the fact that this light, that tree will can’t ever be captured anyways.