He sits in solitude with his paragraph
an incongruent splash
of black letters on a white screen
before cracking the silence
with a rhetorical “Shal we?”
Like a maniacal blackjack dealer
he shuffles the words
whispering them to himself
listening to their sound
until they click in perfect cadence
and a rolling rhythm is formed
where words formerly choppy
now sway in unison
like obedient bulbs
strung elegantly
on an idea wire
“Done” he says to himself.
“We’re done.”
bendingtheneedle 