Come March– march over to me,
I, undiscovered country.
I had no idea that it was your birthday
as I saw you shout “Come”
into my lampwicked digital diaries.
Come. I would like to come.
But the space between looms large and (how?);
the miles are a long and cold shroud,
useful only in covering up
our knowledge of each other.
The wired highway telegraphs,
shows us how.