the wires by my street that hover above me are so beautiful. a poem and photo
Repeated telephone lines, intertwining..
from pole to pole.
Shot through a tubular structure,
same as running water,
same as neurons.
Electrical impulses move like thoughts.
Wires stretch from pole to pole.
Compressing the delicate wires.
They are pushing down on you .
And pulling up from the earth.
Cast shadows imprinted on the floor, same as footprints.
Telephone poles line up: connected from ear to ear.
Poles: peaking outwards.
Blooming, stemming from the floor.
The web like wires are mere whispers
Poles: stretch out their one arm, to each other, miles away.
City wires are endless.
No. Stop. Fast paced. Loud.
Country wires, only one. at. a. time.
Waiting for their turn.
Lined up patiently. Only moving in one direction and in unison.
The wooden poles are intrusive, inserted into the floor. Forcefully.
The earth rejects them, making them crooked,
leaning them onto one side.
Hanging on to the next pole.
Space. Day. Night.
There wire reaches to the other pole, only to
eventually cut off.
From the limitation of nature and the vast openness of nothing.