she’s a blank sheet, waiting. a quiet screen
longing to scream. some black-throne keys
to clack, attack the day. she’s smudge on
snow, you know. a black blinking portal
door signaling for more (words, phrases,
time.) she is paper ghost haunting every
smoky line. she’s distraction, and de
-struction and can’t get no satisfaction
and disruption and those laundry piles
that ain’t got fold. at this point, she’s about
6 minutes old, and still counting (stars). she
is mine, and ours, and yours if i share. she is
post blank-stare and whirlwind mind. be
kind, she’s new, and naked. give her a
minute or two, and she might glue her
-self into something slightly fine, syllables
shining in the light of this screen and this
coffee steam. or she could get shy and just
delete
her
(selves) to sky.
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