After Wallace Stevens
From this glass mountaintop, everything is moving
Between twenty silver spires.
Everyone reduced to dots and ants dot com.
Except the stillness
Of a blackberry.
I checked every pocket,
Three times. Phone?
Blackberries taste better in absence.
Something for the headache, for constricted telephone lines,
And the satellite’s triangulation. Swallow the blackberry.
A man and a woman
A man and a woman and a blackberry
I’ve seen the perplexity
Of the grinning blackberry,
Those green, glowing button
Teeth under my thumbs.
The door will not stay closed tonight.
Terrible screeching of the radiator.
Is that a blackbird sleeping there
On the rug?
No, it is a blackberry.
I only have two distinct memories
Of the fire-crested blackberry:
Late that night, lascivious and plying me
With drink, and the next morning,
Secretively slipping out the door.
I know accents cannot be texted,
And R’s don’t roll on keypads;
But I know, too
That the blackberry speaks better
Spanish than I know.
That I like the buzzed thigh massage
Of text message on silent, speaks to
The soothing power of the modern blackberry.
At the sight of a blackberry
Tweeting and glowing green,
The blogger’s unconstructive outrage
Transmits if there is reception.
A traveler without a compass
Shaves in the park, his dusty backpack
Still perched on his shoulders,
Using his blackberry
As a mirror.
The webpage is loading.
The blackberry must be blinking.
It was morning all afternoon.
I woke up late
And I was going to nap some more.
The blackberry sat
Like a promise, still in its packaging.