typewriter hums to let me know it's there
even when not powered, sonorous buzzing,
desire to be handled.
the keys to its yearning grubby,
the ink dry upon the ribbon,
but its possible pitch and pounce upon the page
is something I want to feel in this low-lit
attic.
open window, muttering city slithers in and combines,
harmonious whimpering.
I stand above city and machine,
ready to add rhythm.









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