single serving xerox
dripping ink from the
edge of a sole, blinding
white sheet.
where are you hemingway?
to save me from
this paperclip jungle,
i hear your typewriter spitting,
but the man behind the keys
has absorbed into
the wooden chair.
show me the way hemingway,
illuminating computer screens
searing the mind
a detrimental hue waltzing
with a grind
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