#3: Dictation

My fingers tap tap tap at the typewriter keys

A heavy black machine, skeletal keys pecking

Wildly at a winding ribbon of midnight’s ink

Words embossed unevenly on onionskin

Periods punch, comma tails fade as they curl into sleep

Parentheses, I decide, can earn their keep

Hooking each end of my smile in place

This is happy work, at a wide oak table

Fellow poets and scribes at my elbows,

Filling every seat

In a room lit by the strange yellow

White light of vision beyond vision

Where we tap, type, scratch

Words into being, in this steno pool

Taking dictation from the mouths of dreams.

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