Patience has taken its last breath,
wheezing and gasping on the dusty desert floor.
It was shot dead by impeding, immediate technologies
with pistols of magnetic, lit-up gadgets only good for the year
and bullets of binary-coded, digital messages.
Suspense has no power behind it
without the value of time and its coquettish
syncopation, measured only by timpani drums and trumpets.
It uses what sluggish power it still has,
stolen from noir films and thriller movie scores.
Love has fallen victim to mad science
and automatic replies sent by automatic repliers.
Making plans and then cancelling, at hats’ drops
is simple and mystical and only needs finger-button pressing.
Love sits quietly and gets dusted once in a while.
Language has been amputated to fit into pockets
and miniature screens, foregoing ancient tongued
wizards who created alphabets of sounds and energy.
The new language of the day sounds like coins falling
into a well; contractions contract further as we mumble inexplicably.