THIS SOFT WHITE PAGE Poem by Runa Svetlikova

We read cerebral light pollution, streetlights
on a world gone mad, with photons jumping from this black-on-white

colliding with the dark side it takes no longer than 150 milliseconds
to read a word (which word? - this word: word).

Every line of every letter fits every cortex perfectly, meaning is
burned into our brain - but poetry makes nothing happen

someone said who knew he was lying even before this poem
lit up smartly connected sections of the brain on scan.

Even analogue we're binary: now the epic stories were declared dead
all that's small gains meaning. This poem is also a biological incident

with possibly far-reaching consequences. We shifted our orbits
but haven't got any closer. Words continue to count

in contracts, laws, on borders, on everyday paper crude deaths
occur for want of the applicable stamp. But poetry
fortunately makes nothing happen.