Tell me about the girl. The girl
is good. Our people have hidden
her in the city. She's smitten
with you, you know. Tell me
something nobody knows.
Walk three yards past the shadow
of the cathedral's steeple 10 minutes
after noon. A deaf man will be waiting
in a doorway. He will take
your hand & lead you, blindfolded,
to the place we keep the data.
The data is the girl. Tell me how
you've done this. I dug through all
the strata of the alleys of the city
& never saw her face. Tell me
how she keeps her peace
with these beta-versions
of security floating uselessly
around her. Take the third brick
from left & turn it 'round
real quick. The key beneath
is binary; you'll figure it out.
We only loosely know
the identities of even our favorite
friends. She'll tell you, when
you see her. It's almost dusk,
too late. It's all luck, really.
My eyes hurt from looking.
Author Discusses Poems