The melancholy finds me even in my sleep.
Distance gaps. An invisible wire connects us
from ragged point to wary point. We struggle
to connect in the untethered Age of Connectivity. 

It’s strange.

All the birds chirping together sound like telephone static. 
All the pain I overhear from strangers at the supermarket 
sounds like my own, when I’m really listening. 

On the drive back to my apartment, crackers for breakfast 
and the sun peaks its way past suburban sprawl–
the birds don’t know how we feel. They rise and fall
in groups, land where they please. Who’s to say
exactly what they know?