What a pleasure, tracking all the data
generated as I go about my business.
The steps I walk and where I take
them, not that I ever venture far. My
information cloisters in a hollow, carved
out deep within a tower, ringed around
with solid rock. Beetles clicking nimbly
in their burrows, my days are ticked
upon the walls, and I’m a leering keeper,
not a digit unrecorded. I have a watch
that makes a note of every beat my heart
secures, all day long and every minute,
ricocheting up and down, a coal car
with a lustrous cargo, till I undo the clasp
at night, let my device revive itself and
who knows what velocity my heart
achieves, while I am sleeping, what it gets
up to in the dark, with no one to attend
or tally, perhaps my heart has dug
a tunnel, perhaps it is already gone,
the beetles swarming the deserted bunk
