Shot by a cell tower two miles north
A bar appears on my i-Phone in
A square meter behind the couch.
Where only mice and this man go now.
To take in messages and momentum
As life no longer stops on the mountain.
A message beep ignites a firestorm of synaptic psychosis.
I throw on the dirt covered flannels, and dig in
To the wet freeze to slow the meta movement
And mitigate the malaise of murdered freedom
From everything I care about.
The crystals, packed like flour but crunching
the remains of branches not taken
by blizzards then and now or tempests of tomorrow.
Sliding on skulls smoothed for millions of years
shifts only smaller than the electromagnetic
Blitz I was retreating from.
I sit on a lonely limb of strong birch
and watch steam from my far away house
And not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.