To show me how the web works
you flick staccato light switches
to send me messages in stuttering
blocks of dark and yellow
across evenings networked
by streets with lamps like wires.
Our pitch for communication;
consummation in binary
each dusk. So I scan the sills
of windows, signals of on
or off, for noughts and ones
like morse code, our plural quirk.
One new message. Well past p.m.
No idea what I’ve been doing since ten
(I was watching a video, blogging and then…).
Open. Neither of us have the time zone to excuse
this digital rendezvous at two. Subject: News.
I read and wonder if this is code, or a cue
for something more than a late night reply;
speculating what you are doing online and why,
at this hour, you thought of me or us. And I,
RE: News, clatter a response into the night
and feel some connection, simple delight,
fanning half remembered embers into life.
If you have any comments on this poem, Alex Pryce would like to hear from you.