I invoke the air in rage,
am like a cancer in a cage—
only myself to burn, to burn;
mere glass and sun on an empty stage.
Pick and spade, curse and yearn—
agatefulls are struck and turned,
one by one and year by year,
until the hollow has been earned.
Now the reckoning is near,
now the starlings rise in fear;
a shadow sweeps across the page
and I was music, talking here.
Dear Reader,
Can I be direct with you?
War abroad. Socialists on the rise. AI upending human life. Endless uproar online. The modern attention economy doesn’t want readers — it wants users enslaved to the tyranny of the present.
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