Skinny box that fits in the palm of my hand,
It holds my life;
From the snapshots immortalizing moments of joy and pain
To the little secrets I want to keep close to my chest. It’s made of dancing images,
Bits and pixels born from digital eyes,
Yarning the stories of nobody, yet everybody
Fighting to get a sip of my liquid attention
A sip, every breath, across ages. It’s made of words ballet,
Flocking through black mirrors,
Cause, pushed by jail mates through the prison yard,
A choreography of words that shoved handwriting into oblivion.