By | 1 July 2009

As the key sticks I can't write, the story
collapses, it drops
to being just a muttering,
a thought, unheld, to be forgotten.

I think I should smoke open my matches, strike – it slides quietly down the side
of the box.

I look away turn to it, check.
The red tips are insight, – waiting.
The next coughs, splutters, lights, Next time I'll take out two, I will now
always – now alway – take out two just to be sure.

The light flickers,
we both flicker,

The screen is still. The smoke wafts past.
The screen is still as I take two matches from the box. I look quickly down to
the matches, — both good

I look to the screen, I should smoke/didn't smoke the matches wouldn't
matter/letter hadn't stuck I wouldn't have smoked.


There's a taste, —- — a taste of paint.

The pencil I've picked up tastes of paint-then lead.
I write the missing letter on the surround of the keyboard/touch the key with
the pencil's paint-less tail/letter appears,
sits silently,

I can't think what I would have written before the key stuck so I take the letter
off the screen.

The pencil's letter sits alone on the surround, written on matt and neutral plastic.

The key is worn, symbol disappearing, the key ingrained with me.

An eraser won't remove the pencil's letter, it takes just the surface and leaves a
ghost, a ghost of the letter in the mattness of the surround.

I tap the key again.
Just the same, just as patient.
I could start with it.
The ghost in the plastic agrees/worn key tells me right.

The room's light now just stops.

Only the letter sits/glows/waits to start.

The ghost unlit,

Key already knowing.

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