Rather lounge on a couch nourished
by the sharp turn and talk of a single page
than strain through the luminous glare
of an electrified screen like a conspirator.
Knead the dough of the story,
the warm loaf in the hands rising
rather than stretch plastic cable
to that-just-right angle to balance a machine
awkwardly at midnight.
Most of all, imagine, a Mother or Father
reading beside you by lamplight,
or you reading to your loved ones,
as they fall asleep dreaming of a game world,
a sky sugared with new meanings,
clusters of constellations, of sentences.
