Clock Stop Talk

some time has passed
since I've tapped letters back,
some time past
since I've wrapped black
on the white screen -
it relieves the building, you see,
the pushing from somewhere
in the stomach or the kidney.
I'll stand opposite then,
in front of the silver glass
(it looks so samely back),
face to pen with malicious intent:

I'll squeeze out imperfection,
delete my dull diction,
remove with conviction
the friction in my face;
I'll fix my hair, rearrange words
here or there, to stop on occasion
for use of punctuation
when my eyes catch my eyes
and stare.

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