“…and the tongues of envelopes closed in
—Luisa A. Igloria, “Meditation on unchanging weather“
Hit send. I often find I close my eyes a moment
as the poem fragments, not word by word but
all at once, becoming ones and zeroes, being
and non-being pushed along thick copper wires
decades old, then reaching the relay, bounced
into near-space orbit where they collide with
satellites, careen back toward the planet’s
surface, are sucked in by silicone and plastic
vacuums designed to receive and reassemble.
Not just a single poem traveling like this, but
at any given moment, many. Not just mine,
but those of others. Hundreds. Thousands more.
I shut down and step away from desk and digital,
first out onto the porch, then dare go beyond its
shelter, stand under ever-open sky. Am I being,
now, bombarded by stray fragments, irradiated
by streams of poetic being and non-being
that are just out here waiting to be reconstructed into
words and meaning? Even when the sky is clear,
does it rain invisibly, constantly drip bits? And am
I unwise to wander, unprotected, in such weather?