Analog
by Rachel J. Bennett
having a theoretically infinite resolution
Woke up to beaks and contrails alike open to all
the music we can stand. Woke up to people-turnedpixels thirty feet high above the avenue, the vines
scribbling extraordinary messages above
my thesaurus. Woke up wondering about angles as
curves and your name as the favorite poem of god
and my separation, as man-turned-god put it,
as something these machines will never
reproduce. The blood, the comedy. Woke up thinking
about yesterday’s blizzard of flowers and all
the ways I’m painting signs for the world
to ignore at its peril. Woke up and admired
the personalities of babies and dogs: tall babies, future
babies, robo-dogs—and the baby with no dog except
the one she lost in her symphony of floods,
the only one she’ll ever love (though none of us
can know how many dogs we have left
to love). And directions, I gave these all day, the kind
people ask for when they think you also know
what it is to be a little lost. I know about this. I can
tell you about sweetness. Woke up to every part
of the season around me, including me, falling quietly.
Gyroscope Review 19
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