Watermelon rind and the Rockcastle River,
that plastic salt shaker (white,
its form almost like a woman
with her hands on her hips),
grape gum from the gas station.
Damp the moon in honey–
that’s bronze-legged summer, 1996–
when the earth was as big to me
as space is big to me now.
The internet was a fishing line,
our shared phone a river to others.
Sometimes I miss these analog mysteries,
the way things could slow down.