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
screen and windshield
canyon and cage.