The numb narcotic of scrolling
down the forever page,

growing longer as the day
dissolves its relevance into
repetitions of images and words,

floating over black electricity
and disappearing as quickly
from memory as from
the last neurons –

shifting between the hum
of backlit screens
and the faint subconscious,

the dead white illumination
of time projects its blindness
like snow falling into the white morning,

when birth is a buried whisper
and bodies hear only the music
of warm plastic and unresponsive hands.

Jeffrey Parker is a poet living in San Francisco. His work is forthcoming in The Midwest Quarterly, and he is currently shopping his collection, Downturns.