Three Desk Objects
What suns had to rise and set
what eyes had to blink out
what hands and fingers
had to let go of their heat
before you appeared on my desk
black light
portable and radiant
and you, my electric typewriter
with your cord and hungry plug
drinking a sinister transfusion
from the other side of the wall
what histories of slaughter
have left these scars on your keys
What multiple deaths have set loose this clock
the small wheels that grind
their teeth under the metal scalp
My cool machines
resting there so familiar
so hard and perfect
I am afraid to touch you
I think you will cry out in pain
I think you will be warm, like skin.
