Second Ode To The Very Same Stapler

Poem By Anna Moriarty Lev

Ah, friend.
here we are, yet again.
in haste I do inquire on the innards you store
behind that line of teeth.

your fire is connection.

what metal dispenses your tongue?
alluminum? shiny silver magic.
chisel point for easier penetration.

you stare me down, thinking
i will use you.
dust collects on your pallet as you plead,

'use me, abuse me, torment me with the touch of your skin! '

you shall go blind from the wanting.
all papers remain separate, there are no staples required today.
do you shed dead cells as you wait,
beside the crusty three-hole punch?

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