Walk through Edmonton with a small tablet in your hands
that you have to juggle even if you want to
touch the lilac cones or pick up a grocery list.
It is easier for you to think about it as a tablet, Egyptian wax,
or a tablet, Laura Ingalls's slate,
than the portal you are stepping halfway through to the information,
a place without lilacs or old receipts, without
faces in the crowd of a metro, without green curry,
coriander like crunching down on perfume,
without the homeless, only portals beginning three-quarters
of the way through the bus stations before them,
like your ex-husband with the suggestion
of endless varieties of intercourse, but here's a new portal
opening to the sound of j-pop, three-quarters, seven-
eighths of your way through, so you can't come here, you won't arrive.
(I'm reading this new poem tomorrow night, 7 o'clock, at here w/ u, a balcony poetry show with Theo Fox, Jenna Heineman, Charles Gonsalves, and Corey Polo. If you'd like to come, please call, text, email, tweet--and I'll make sure you get the address.)