After ten years without, I recently got cable, a boon of a move. It’s not real cable—no pay networks—and it’s piped in from my landlord’s through a curiously legal coaxial connection. Some channels come in, some don’t. The ones that do snow in and out, flickering into sharp relief before, again, the image departs. For a moment, there is E!. Kim Kardashian argues with one of her sisters. I change the channel. One of the guys from American Pickers haggles over a porcelain, double-sided Austin Healey dealership sign. And then, nothing. Just whiteness. I could get up, jiggle the line, but why would I? These flashes offer something brilliant and when forced to consider the patchwork as a whole, something holy. Kara Imre’s selection this week reminded me of the same. We are confronted daily with pieces of media, snippets from here, a shared article there. It is easy to lose ourselves in the seeming mess of it, its randomness. However, these poems move through curious connections, related by phrase or sound, and as the focus moves from micro to macro, they offer us something greater, something bigger, something beautiful. An image flickers in and holds. Briefly, in our hands, we grasp a stone of snow before it melts away again.