Sleepy Printer

I dream. I leave a
tiny print on the glass,
the surface of your mind.
It’s still. I hear the hum
of machines, the beeps
of a sleepy printer.
I dream. The words wrap
around my fingers tightly.
They bind my hands. I can
only press one key at a
time—poke, poke, poke.
The computer forgives me.
I dream, close to the
canvas, microchips warm
to greet me.