I hum and beep at my master, but he does not listen. He pounds on my keys furiously, typing out insubstantial things, embedding himself in the abstract. I creak and moan. I shout to him, “Go outside! Go play! It’s too nice to sit here all day!” He doesn’t hear, just continues …

fresh smoke squirms through our sacred window, pierces yesterday's angel those words, salt your voice, awake my flesh, dried a raw monopoly of god

squirming through the marbled world when you remember words remember the copper tang, the smoky perfume, the sad, warm woman your work must be porcelain steel rythms