i am my

newsprint-grayed

nervous hand,

that wants to find

the table top

edge,

fiddles with

the corner,

fake and

glued together

to resemble

fruits of calloused

hands and

sharp teeth. the

thinness of newspapers

and the tendons

clutching words

and the wrist which

is resting on the

mdf + laminate

on screwed-in legs

on some floor, over

god-knows what on

the ground, on the

ground, on

ground. i press

into my surface

the line from whatever

corner i'm at, because

i just read

the words and

the left-out letters

asked me where

i was.