Monday, March 17, 2014


He drags an old metal Underwood
by a rope knotted around the space bar
across the rocks, bumping and banging
and making sounds there are no letters for.

Years pass
He drags a battered Dell keyboard
by its rubber tail across the sand.
He’s almost to the edge of the water,
the tide no words can survive,
where the only language is
a Morse stream of bubbles
rising from the hollow beneath
a submerged stone.

Years pass
The fog drifts in so gradually
he doesn’t notice until
huge swaths of landscape are deleted.
He stops and stares for a long time
then reaches into his pocket
and pulls out a pen.
It leaves no mark in the mist.
He shuffles forward, hands stretched
out before him, groping his way
across the fields
toward the blank page that remains always
just out of reach.

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