this poem



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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