Monday, May 19, 2014

Transmitters

She sits next to you and to the fan.
She switched it off
on purpose.

She cannot take the noise and tumbling,
transmitters that jump
from ear to nerve to cell to thought.
Blades
rotate in her head,
you without switch
- she cannot find a single button.

My friend, you are
distraction
I am frank, you are
not even yet a friend.

Doesn’t it feel good
to know that something
might transmit, shouldn’t
you leave it
there, forever.