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.
