Cursor
The cursor ascends the screen
without prompting from my finger.
A Ouija board indicator, it floats
up, a white pennant raised by pulleys
off screen. This is evidence of
the magic buried inside the little
that we perceive, and call life.
The cursor hits the ceiling
of the monitor, bumps its point
on the edge of the screen.
I touch it with a pointed finger,
pluck it from the monitor
and hold it between thumb
and index finger. The edges
are sharp. Still it lies on the table,
unable to breathe the undigital air,
pointing with no reason, an arrow
irretrievably jettisoned, aimless.
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There must be a name for divination through a computer screen. And perhaps a form of poetry written by following a cursor somehow let loose. If so we could have a modern day Mrs Yeats, banging out verses of her own intead of desperately trying to get William Butler's attention with the wanderings of her oija board.
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