_
i sit at my typographic piano and wait

_
for a chasm of opinion
a simple sign to get me moving
or my editor to disapprove me

_
hours of useless garble

_
improving into real thoughts
the manuscript collects
into heavy paper piles

_
ever expanding digital files

_
into an increasing share
of used cigarettes the boy
i left still smokes and laments

_
two bottomless coffee cups

_
to fill a sea with no real readers
all words sink and sail together
it’s every script i ever and never

_
my fevers stayed across the water