Edward Snowden comes around to fix my sick PC

Edward Snowden comes around to fix my sick PC. in his shy and patient way he explains the software program has become corrupted and its reinstalling must take place at source—   the registry itself the computer’s still, non-beating heart. He sets about his task. I notice his deft, ghostly fingers an expression of obscure genius no MRI could capture. I’m not embarrassed that the computer’s five years old. But I want to ask him—   no, I’m straining to—   whether he still believes the poor must answer for their own wretchedness? And how a fair-minded person such as he could ever cling to such a comforting idea? afterwards we will sip green tea in the sitting room and I’ll persuade him that his next exposé must reveal our own torn and twisted hearts straining to escape their ventricular structures in the gaping face of the world’s inanimate evil. Another hymn to morning calibrate the stiffness of the arm today retrieve the hot water bottle from the nest of bed Motion is a good name for a poet, as is Carver. the bathroom has a sunlit alien glow. you have to shower in twenty minutes and pay the rent. on ya for cooking today’s rice yesterday. twirl open the smooth slimline venetians and there are fairy lights strewn over the neighbours’ tree which you initially mistake for unripe plums. depressed by the impossibility of matching socks you explode from the flat in a plume of nitrogen angst An absence of conviction the woman we almost bump into on Sydney Road is appetite-big and street-wintering. she stands on the sidewalk with a look of utter astonishment that is concentrated entirely in her eyes. our approach seems to halt hers as if she is mesmerised not by the world itself but her own reaction to its roundness time is moving more slowly for her so we keep striding purposefully past in our corridor planet later in the restaurant I see this same look when she stares through the glass at the meal of one of the patrons she stares as if she has never seen food before and does not know now how to shift her gaze or believes that the shrill chatter and the garlic din will summon her to a long-overdue lesson on the purpose of existence her gaze drops away and we release