Futures

a poem

In the new cities, nightmare is the policy.
Trapped and alert, each nerve-end gives birth 
to cameras and techniques, to bright red sets of data. 
Our eyes become a prism in which dreams deform.
Nothing is separate. Nothing withheld. All day long
we can puncture. We can eat the black, magnetic paste 
dripping from shattered bakeries. In the unglued stre…