He carried no phone
and sent no text.
He took holidays
but no photos,
downloaded no jpegs,
burned no CDs,
got no snapshots printed.
He maintained no blog.
He had no email address,
deleted no spam,
subscribed to no mailing lists,
unsubscribed from no mailing lists.
He downloaded no songs,
and ripped no music to mp3s.
He created no playlists.
He carried no camera or iPod.
He recharged no devices.
He never backed up.
The theme is those dry wrinkled hands,
The stark high-contrast folds of white
And dark cloth, how the knuckles glint,
An emaciating holy blight
Upon the spirit, one lean face
That pities all the world, he stands
Jointed in diamonds, in iron hurled,
To intercede between God’s wrath
For Man, and iconise belief,
Minted in an abstract space.
The metallic backdrop of gold leaf
Makes it plain this is no scene
Of earth, or what earth can ordain.
[The poems appeared sometime back on Eureka Street, and the source of the images is the Mendocino Coast Model Railroad and Historical Society and Virtual Uffizi]