Broadband

“The needle’s eye, that doth supply,

The thread that runs so true,

Many a beau have I let go

Because I wanted you.” 

A frail connection, 

the ragweed tops  20 feet in the garden, 

grounding on the phone line.  

The power network  

and the data connection  

slouch in on gnarly arcs,

bent, creosoted posts  

drifting across miles of bottoms and pastures.  

Fragile hyphae  

working their way back to me,  

a minotaur in a hollar.