My soul has been dragged down into the depths
by endless texts on Sunday afternoons—
by things half-said, half-meant, not understood.
I wish I’d stopped in 2007. I remember walks
back then, around the grove, the park—like heaven.
We’d walk to the convenience store.
But in the past 10 years how text has harrowed,
or half-harrowed by its vague suck, my heart
and head into non-meaningfulness.
How the overabundance or rather abundance
has half sharpened me. My wit was two bowling balls
back then, and now it’s a thousand bearings cut loose.
My heart’s become ten anthills of disaffection
where once it was a single, earnest dog.
Once it nipped and played in the night, but now
it merely is, in its many fractured desires,
a heart without heartness, without real gravitas!
Let’s just say there are too many hearts in me
just as I suspect there are the same in you,
a candy heart assortment, and this by ceaseless
text, endless interaction—a sickness of the mind.
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