After Talking to Three People in India for Over Three Hours
The new router, white, sits in the window,
and sends invisible signals to my laptop,
and I have not an inkling how it works.
But it works. All the new numbers—the preferred
DNS, the IPS, the sub-something-or-other—
they’ve all been reassigned and all is right
with the flow of invisible information.
There is so much we cannot see,
but we know when it works. For instance,
the currents of love between you and me.
Surely they are torrential. Surely there
are rapids and waterfalls and deep eddies
and glassine pools where on a clear night
the moon would be perfectly mirrored.
But for all this energy, this gushing,
and these places of gentle hush,
not a thing for the eye to land upon.
Though there is your smile and the way
it spreads to mine. And there is the lilt
in my stride. And there are sometimes the tears
with their long silver trails of salt.
I don’t know, I don’t know how it works,
this invisible flow of love. But sure as my laptop
connects to the modem, it works, oh yes, it does.