It’s instant isn’t it? Unlike
telegrams or snail-mail or
smoke-signals or carrier-pigeons or
a runner’s feet slapping
bare baked earth?
There are no horse-relays involved
are there? or landslips to
frustrate, or feathered tribes to
shoot, a messenger?
Our frontiers are pervious,
aren’t they, to all our
ethereal mutterings? The
air is so full of them it is
opaque with their mist of
assignations and the
sweet musk of infidelity. They
must mingle with the drizzle I inhale
as I sit and wait and
wait for the instant reply to my
instant message.