All In the Wrist

There are plastic bins filled with

chemical waters

It pinches me inside my nose, the air does,

but you seem accustomed to it
so I smile and watch you pour

I'm willing to wait for your finger-clicks to swim

in these chemical waters, in

whatever correct order they should

go, to see how your eye

caught light or lightning that day

I often remember the the marbles-ready thumb

in black and white

on your wall

And I want to write a book

just to have that on the cover,

I want to hardline some future publisher to

give you many thousands of dollars

for the right to

marble-thumb my book,

my quiet little book

that tries to stay out of the way

of its loud little cover