The Machines Tell Me

 
I'm told by digital dictators
that it's too cold for t-shirts
so I sweat and climb the hills
that remind me of leaving your bed.

Satellites tell me I shalln't
speak with you unless
I learn to grow some feathers
(where's that machine?).

Technology delegated solitude
so I apparently cannot love
and the black clouds are upon me
and we rain 'til next time
and all the blazing stars
are minus fifty degrees.