The Disconnected Man

A poem


They say the world is dying,

that we need to farm the wind. Wind harvesters


turn against a sky white as plate,

pinwheels crowning poles, spinning wind


into electricity. I see and hear

the glow and grinding: the can opener’s


rasp-hum, a rush of steam, a trickle

in the coffee machine as the Pyrex pot


fills up. My boots, asleep by the upstairs door.

I want more. Am I a man on a column


going crazy or blind? The phone rings.

No caller, only dial tone —