The alabaster box turned on a lemon: a whole fruit spent entire for a spoonful of brightness, and the sparing ones who looked on and called it waste.
The horseleech's two daughters turned on the infinite feed—a well with no floor, and an eye that the seeing cannot fill.
The psalm against idols turned on a vending machine: a lit and humming thing with a belly full of bread, that takes the coin and gives none.
The forty years turned on a phone tree: press one for this and two for that, led about by the way of the wilderness, seeking one living voice.
The law and the trespass turned on a self-checkout: an unexpected item in the bagging area, and every eye in the hall turned toward you.
Psalm 139 turned on the algorithm: thou hast searched me and known me, and knewest the wanting before ever I framed it into a word.
The voice that goeth before thee turned on satnav: perfect obedience to a way you never learn, and the word that comes when you leave it.
Martha and Mary turned on a phone in the pocket: careful and troubled about many things, and the one thing needful never begun.
The image of God turned on a CAPTCHA: prove now that thou art a man and not a machine, by naming the traffic lights in a faded grid.
The burning bush turned on an airport security line: put off thy shoes from off thy feet, and empty thy pockets of every coin and key and small thing.
The covenant scroll turned on the terms of service: a contract that will not end, in a tongue none but the scribes can construe, agreed to unread.