Once you have the WiFi password

you've accepted shared ownership 

of an ethernet soul

memory keeps your IP

you hold this signal 

in your back pocket

and wonder if those ten digits 

are the last lover’s phone number 

and every time you return 

you're greeted by more than a peck 

and a coffee and maybe a fuck–

the metaphysical and the miles

of WiFi wires connect 

the two of you (and 

maybe the neighbor, too)

to the same “Apt 115” 

(who knows how far this signal reaches, 

in every direction? who else picks it up, too?)

and how apt, once it's over, 

that when passing a closed door 

your phone slips into a known network, 

(it remembers those numbers)

recognizes a safe connection,

one you no longer know (nor the web 

of limbs, and knees and knuckles 

tumbling together) outside 

 of (/through walls, invisible 

space, through bodies, Levi’s 

and leather, ribs and pelvis)

the digital heart in your pocket

---

Cover photo by Bernadetta Watts