With no signs of normal returning,
only computer screens on fire, you

never wore the smoke of a hero’s cologne,
called late night rescue or dragged through a window.

Not all flames submit to technology’s promiscuous
choice of plugs. For some, a hole is just a hole,

but not to the shovel’s rusty blade opening the ground
like a lover’s tongue to bury what may or may not bloom.

That tiny light at the bottom of the screen flickering for its mother,
knows letters on the keyboard will soon be ash, and Daddy’s not coming home.

Daniel Edward Moore lives in Washington on Whidbey Island. His work is forthcoming in Xavier Review, The Chiron Review, Hurricane Review, Bryant Literary Review, The Meadow Journal, The Stillwater Review, Clackamas Literary Review and The Denver Quarterly. His book, Waxing the Dents, is from Brick Road Poetry Press.