The face is always burning because of the glow of a computer,
humiliation, beer, or motion.

Gesture is all pause.
Moving is not moving, not silent.
They rattle like a couple of cheap
copper bracelets on a raised arm. We blink

over frames

and when you blink you
draw a string map through a series of desks and chairs.
We are the scratching and the scratched.

The wheelhouse, my energy source, water
tempered, and not the river.

The officials are super soft, Oh,
opening body
the humming of the machine.