Each day we stare at screens,
a sly fluorescence, a not-quite sky
where swarms of data
aggregate and fly
while unseen cloud-and-sunlight
walks the grass, gold shoes
then grey, and aspen, oak,
the green-leaved spirits, pray.
Pilots of pixel storms.
what do we bring? Less talk,
less laughter, less sun on our skins;
our lives on hold, our children wired in.
Core addiction, captive eyes.
Outside the real world breathes and dies.