When I marvel at what my fingertips can do:

just a touch and many poems fly out of here

to places far and near —

it is a different kind of marveling

than when I stand in awe before a sunrise

or pause to watch an albino squirrel

climb a live oak tree.


The first option is fairly new.

I never marveled when I used a typewriter¬† —

corrected its mistakes with white-out

and pulled the paper out —

folded it, put it in an envelope

addressed that — and then put on a stamp.

And, what would it cost me

to send a hundred poems

several times a week, to a variety of friends?


So there is more to marvel at now

in this dangerous world of shootings

and violence and terrorism.


I can see so much of that —

(the beauty and the terribleness)

by using that same finger —

the one that allows me

to touch your world

with words that I assemble

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