17: Clicked

He is a stone carver and he
sculpted the moon while you

clicked and refreshed down
the internet’s cul-de-sacs

hoping for a Sasquatch to loom before you with claws
hoping to trip and tumble into fields of blue tulips

He sits with a cast iron pot and
distills the tincture of sqwee

in yesterday’s vials but you,
you can’t stop clicking,

waiting to learn the lecture of resplendent bruises
waiting for something, anything, unsignposted

but your afternoon eyes are too
focussed, too ensnared. Your eyes

are soft-throated bunnies
bewitched by the musk of the lure

click.