Irritated skin can’t help but
begin to scab over.
They keep the words hidden
in an old stone box behind locks
attached to metal molded four
leaf clovers.
She runs her hands across them
so she can see them in the dark.
They are almost too cold to feel,
and with this kind of steel.
There is no breaking the seal
without going through the proper
channels. The ones who get the closest
all give up, daunted by the shadow
of the tower. The sloppy drunks
in power won’t stop for anything
until the green hair us lice infest
starts to hold us in our places
on the ground.
Steel
Teleporting Typewriter 