It
just
goes
on
and
on
and
on;
the
text
above
is
never
gone
for
good
(or
evil)–
it’s
still
there,
ten
miles
above
in
cloud-clogged
air.
It
lingers
when
you
shift
your
screen,
does
not
dispel,
so,
sight
unseen,
the
words
extend
above
the
frame,
no
page
to
number,
each
the
same,
an
endless
river
flowing
through
the
pointillistic
pixels,
you,
and
off
into
the wordless
blue.
But
there’s
a
joy
in
flipping
pages,
known
to
spellbook-toting
mages
and
to
comics nerds
alike,
and
likely
evident
to
psychoanalysts
whose
Freudy
tomes
sport
ink-splotched
pages.
Who
builds
homes
with
just
one
room?
To
turn
a
page –
to
touch
the
text –
is
to
engage
the
body
of
the
book.
A
punctuation
(tiny
pause).
You’ve
blunk
the
briefest
blink
and,
then,
anon,
are
blank.
Not
here –
unceasing
onslaught!
Where
do
page
breaks
go
to
hide
when,
rectified
and
versified,
the
text
rolls
on
(is
on
a
roll!)
and
turning
turns
to
endless
scroll?
High up
above
your framing
phone
the
faint
line
1
teeters
alone.
The unseen
spire
waves
to
and
fro,
with
every
tiny
twitch
below.
It’s joined
by others,
thousands,
scads,
from each device
(each
specked
by
ads).
Birds cannot spy them,
but
might sense
while
soaring
through
the text,
the tense,
the plot
(not land,
but open sky),
and,
on a long-haul,
sometimes
I
can feel
while flying
(middle seat,
between the kicks from tiny feet)
the woods of words
beyond the glass
that’s scrolling by
through which we pass.