The focus is all on the fingers
pressed into the chair, counter
balance to the attack
entered into the screen
What is the fuel for this particular
fire—indignation, regret, crisis-
management, or something simple.
clear, not water, but glass
stretched into a brittle sheet
A thing to set down and snap
a picture, not this arduous sketch
with instruments designed for tedious
buttoning, tying, wiping,
How odd hands inevitably translate
what they cannot touch
It isn’t slowing tonight
the clatter, the in, in, in without
waiting for the other,
then it’s sent.
As sure as passing the salt down the table
new hands will become busy.