Author Joseph Heywood
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Tula
[Ontonagon, Aug 11, 2013.]

Your cabin in the woods, hewn logs with creamy chinking
Relief, you get there expecting absolute privacy;
Having cleaned all morning in the buff, you remove
Yourself to sit naked and white, back to a deck wall
Feet out in front of you, toes wiggling, first clear view
They’ve had of you, or vicey-versa, since God
Knows when. There in fish-belly whiteness you look up
To see a truck parked, watching, cameras out and
Clicketeying and clacketeying digitally
Gorging their disks and prurience at your expense.
Lean your head back, lift your chin to god, say out loud,
“Your little jokes grow increasingly tedious.


 
 
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