The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling.
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven,
And as imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen
Turns them to shapes, and gives airy nothing
A local habitation and a name.

-W.Shakespeare

Thursday, 28 November 2013

My Cell

I keep this cell in my pocket,
held in place by invis-
-ible airwaves.

Sometimes I take it out,
just to look-
-at myself in the glare.

I forget I’m held here,
I forget I’m held in the mirror,
I forget I’m held as I hold my cellular.
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