No Signal by Kyle Wendt

These bars are a lie. Three strips like a finish-line

yet the screen stays blank. Dead. Like it has reached the end of the rat race.

Cold metal and glass. The flesh of a corpse. Nothing supple

to this skin. Try to think of something real,

tangible, mountains birthed from flesh.

Bird song shouted from tree like a friend calling

you at two in the morning asking if you are up

not high, like the stars are kidnapping

you slowly lifted into the sky.

But there is nothing but static in the air.