A car radio
set to scan
in remote areas
far from stations
will crackle in bursts
interrupted by minute pauses
for hours as you drive:
small bastions of hope
appearing and disappearing
with every break in the aural snow.
You would gladly settle
for an evangelist out here
as you hurtle alone
through the dark
though you are no believer:
any voice would be welcome
no matter the message.
That, sometimes,
is how fanatics
are born.
The quick brown fox
steers clear
of the lazy dog.
Sick of this, says the fox to the dog
on the way by.
Jumping over you
is so played out.
You’ve been lying there
for many years,
I’ve jumped reliably over you
literally hundreds of thousands
of times, and you never seem to notice
my grace and poise as I do.
Why waste the effort?
All this jumping is murder
on my joints. I’ve got better
things to do: a goose to steal
and more energetic hounds
to trick. An actual challenge
to my cunning. Something
that represents me better.
The dog says, hey,
no skin off my oft-hurdled back.
Whether or not you jump
seems academic. After all,
who writes in longhand anymore?
Dark Matter 