ADAM HOLT

In the cool cages refrigerated souls

are trapped in nightly comfort at seventy three degrees

alienated in the social network

disconnected in interconnectedness—

misguided energy becomes a toxic gush

of status updates.

In the cool cages

they never raise an eye from the screen

to the sky to see Venus

gray veiled in light pollution.

In the morning

the souls trade the cages for canyons for a spell

and listen to degraded symphonics

from the night before,

watch the dot dart through the maze on the dash

with a knee to guide the car

an index finger for the Blackberry wheel

raging at the red light

two fingers on the temple

and the mind

the mind

caged

somewhere between

screen and windshield

canyon and cage.