My fingers make marks
On black print wherever
They land to rearrange
This corner of the world.

The marks are the same
Even if I lift my fingers
Almost as soon as they
Come to rest; it’s always
The same pattern, the
Same added level of
Darkness on the surface
That somehow gives light
To everything else.

Suddenness fools me
Into failing to expect
The predictable.

05/13/2005

Posted on 05/13/2005
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