Handheld
The sweet smoke of burnt offerings
is centuries gone. No bundled reeds float
out to sea, the saltwater licking up
wine and honey.
Our hands would not be that dirty,
curled
parchment maps too inefficient. The old gods
are too much effort, demand too much. Now-a-days
things are shinier. More compact.
Cleaned up.
We keep our gods in our pockets and
purses.
We spring into action when they
chime.
We perch them on our dashboards to
guide us
down empty highways scraped of
landmarks.
They whisper in our ears: “Turn left
in 2.4 miles.”
“Merge.” We have merged thoroughly
with our handheld gods, we have
become
master of the earth and sky,
simplified
everything to lines and gridwork,
put our eyes in orbit
to keep track of where we are. Our hands
are soft and white, our screens as
smooth as ice.
The new gods buzz in our pockets,
always anxious
to be heard, already our masters.
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