your flat fingers clack
easy over the keys
feeding pa t t er n s of lies into
your calculating machine of righteousness
only following
your calling,
doing your work
you reassure
then b
e
n
d
i
n
g
to hold, scrutinize
thin strips of paper
d
r
o
p
p
i
n
g
out of the ex machina like
t
e
a
r
s
never
e
n
d
i
n
g
( s)pooling onto the floor
©lorraine & her frilly freudian slip
I'm listening . . . . . .