“the typist” by Zachary Johnson

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in the outflow
.           in the construct
.                       it’s mere symbols
on a finger
.          twitching
.          like an eye

like a different animal
.          than the human soul

there are endless tons
of possible things

.          that could simply
be put to slapping
.          at plastic squares

be put
.          to sudden jerking—ho!

and what of an author
.          who loves
the people, an unpeeled

fruit, who loves, and loosens
.          the doves,

an open sky? what
.          of the typist

who trembles
at each
.          combination

unfolding
.          beneath her? here
.                      once, was a rigid
snowbank, packed,

and the echo, and the avalanche,
and now we are searching
.          for our own selves
in a valley

of new words

-Zachary Johnson

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