Once washing machines took hold,
there was a woman free of a day
she had spent doing it. She wanted
to write about it, but didn't
think 'washing machine' was appropriate
language for a poem. I think
of her now, staring at mine
and wanting to write about
the sublimity of the status
update, the way my Blackberry
sings to me, the absolute
cynosure that rumbles in my
center at taking dirty pictures
of myself on a digital camera
only to erase them, a new
poetics of the trace that Benjamin
only wet dreamed about.
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