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.

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