Obscurity

There will always be poetry
to be seen and felt and desired
to be written and preserved—

committed to memory,
whether on paper or in pixels, in bytes
that flow from one hand to the next

through the screens that we touch
in lieu of skin and hair and breath.

There will always be meaning
in styrofoam that pretends to be concrete,
in the lights strung together by plastic
that strangle innocent trees

in white sandals and soft leather boots
that step on each other without care, and
under the studs that dig deep in the ground—

in the breeze that carries all your secrets,
falsely secured in obscurity; in the notion
that nobody's there listening.