I suspect there are things of this world
that move only my writerly heart

For instance:
Our communicative advancements
become more and more literary!
Think of email and texting, twittering
and the ubiquitous facebook status,
written words all, as we move ever
closer to perfecting detached shapes
of intimacy

While this makes my abundant literary muscles
twitch with glee, it deflates my loquacious spirit
(thank God, mutter my friends and family)
Brevity has become our chief informant,
has quick reflexed our nervous systems
to receive only the lithest tidbits of life.
We have been trained to eliminate the exposition
(and to think of exposition as flab)

All, of course, is striving for permanence.
We leave ourselves breadcrumb trails
back through the forest, to the far past,
so occasionally we can meander amongst
emotional currents dissipated like
a new rain into the soft topsoil of memory

Meanwhile, in deep, unknowable pockets of the world
men and women do not have a word for internet.
Instead, they regale with loving, flabby accounts
of the immense sounds of the stars in summer,
stinking of burnt wood and feral human odors,
feeling their calloused extremities commune,
missing them when they move apart,
seeking them out in the dark, committing
the whole mysterious world to memory
so one day the hearts of their children
will swell in rhythmic story