Here’s a poem dark with fingerprints,
all the fingerprints that touched the paper it’s on
and made the machines that took the pulp
that had once been wood held by gloves
with secret sweating fingerprints inside.
Here’s a poem dark with the prints of hands
that made the machines that made the machines
that fitted, chiseled, greased and glowed until these words
were boiled down, perfect bound and set
on a shelf in this lonely lit mega-bookstore
for your fingerprints to pick up and touch.
A spot’s been saved right here
near the middle of the page
so it’s you who finally closes this yawn of grease
that’s only human love and work and tarnish.