The loveliest feature of a laptop rests in its ability to transform the contextual limitations of your agency, turning one into the object that responds to the vast universe of facts hovering above the ground of a footed existence. The relations remain encumbered within the algebra of life, but for once, you succeed in self-expression, for you control the meaning through which the conditions of communication must be understood.
The Warwick boy beckons;
he places his shoulder on my lap.
I caress him, for he yawns,
and is bored, and wants life.
He gazes at the trade that tests the sturdiness of his knees.
Or the madness of vineyards.
But he rests on my bench,
hashed beneath a wintry bridge,
on which people cross, to a mythic, fading shore.
These eyes plague the darkness,
they sift the lighted windows,
piercing through the blinds that mask
the privacies concealed to oneself,
to stain the tablecloths,
that hid the devil's trademark.
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