Squatters Where Transmissions End

We live in a small village.
We only get one language
Channel here, bits of static

Mixed in with it from the rest.
Only translation reaches
Irrelevant hinterlands

From the great hegemony
Of mind lording it over
Our cracked eggshell of a world.

We get relays from cousins
Coming from far-off oceans,
Through barbed-wire posts in the woods.

We listen. We let their texts
Of magical silks run through
Our anonymous fingers,

And we play with them, like scarves,
Dramatic, or just looking
To see if light slips through them.