máquina

Morning brew and quandary
five millimetres above
the fingers hover letters
reaching up
the plastic stretching up
asking to be caressed

A fragment at 2:43am
Of language toneless
Colourful in the firmament
Stretching out, straining
Ligament and grapheme
Longing to be touched

A sheen of sweet sweat
A cold to the bones and
Toes roasted, fingers freezed off.

one letter another
discarded
going back
another letter one
this time different
discarded
going back