I clear­cut swaths

through the old growth rainforest

of icons you left on my desktop. Anything with words like

phenomenology

noise capitalism

treatise.
I light a match with my index finger.

I bring it all to the ground with a few clicks.

This contract.    Click.    That poem.    Drag.

Exhale.

I can rope a few things together now, lasso a little more smoothly,

bunch
into a bouquet

some of the thoughts I’ve been having. I walk down the aisle with them.

The icons shunt into place
in their rows, neatly falling, following
one after the other,

and like seconds
I keep getting rid of things.

They’re in
the trash.

Until I empty myself, cyber will be nothing but space.

Until I can drag highlight delete whole groups at a time,
these things of his pictures of us

I look fat
the sky is blue
until I clear the forest it
breathes on me nightly
open
open