Poems of the past
Have the freedom to capture
The never seen

The audience tethered to the land
Learning rhymes the way they live
Every thing by hand

Words typed in ink contrast
With the bold pride
Of a man who knew the land

Travel was extending the range
Of a cooling pie
Paper brought continents, adventure

Now in rows of carved silicone
Stacked an ocean away
Data hold my likeness inside

A box the size of baby’s feet
I can find it in a blink
A plastic click unfurls latitudes

In the swirls imprinted
On my pointer finger
I speak commands

And the very stretch of land
Hidden from my lens
One worked by farmers of the past 

With bone-worn fingers
And herded with a seasoned rasp
Appears at once

Like magic
Like the freedom poets captured
In the cool metal box upon my hand.

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