Shut down the computer.
Fling your phone into the
sea. Accidentally

delete all your emails—
flagged, unflagged, read, unread.
Swallow your TV whole;

regurgitate entrails
of wire, plastic, circuit
board, into your clean hands.

Read your local paper,
written by real people
you actually know—

once a week, maybe twice.
Take pen to paper and
stick stamp to envelope.

Plunge naked feet and toes
into the cold, moist earth;
feel your root tapping down.

Find a star with no name.
Allow her billions
of star-dust light-travel

years to cross the threshold
marking the boundary
between your consciousness

and the endless night sky.
Your body will shiver.
Bring her home, it will say,

take her in.