Google

Lit from behind, the keys

on my MacBook spark a room:

simple enough for shadow

in wee black hours – a winter morning.

But what to say of the keys?

A digital schism of light

inviting some sort of story

or mystery from my fingers

leaping for future screens

(black and white like Chaplin)

bridging our banks of time

hoping to light the night

of a future indefinite human

moving their eyes left to right

but looking not so very far

as letters light up on their forehead

projected by backlight shining

and grabbing at irises, brain cells

hurling the past to a future

simply by pushing a key.