Questions under splendid shrouds
silent, ancient, typewritten,
still beguile across decades.
Fingers move, to distort hands
into silent blossoms, mouths
agape at endless white margin.
A key plays a thought from a fingertip,
sullen and unforgiving,
a steel symbol rattling solitary nights.
Nothing to touch but remembrance,
to fill space except black fonts
from Tuesdays and past lives.
Friends ran far away from home
in gin, orange and bitters,
and that ride tastes like a memory.
Nothing yours that is not mine.
Nothing dark but can be lit.
Nothing moves but what is pushed.
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