No one else is up it’s just her.
The light bulb in her desk lamp is blue.
The medium wraps
itself around everything.
We are a mark on it
a scar made out of scar.
She got one at the bar
splintering cracks
in table wood.
The dark tree sacrificed
for nothing.
Like magic visions
the floaters in her eyes
show her shapes from
the sides of her memory.
Someone sticks a knife
through her hand as a fight
breaks out for no reason.
A woman with a black shamrock
tattoo on her cleavage
clocks her in the eye.
She is back home watching her hand
bleed in between rounds of pressure.
The blue washes out all the red.
Back in the dark and empty bar a hand with no
flesh reaches out of the darkness,
and it mimics all the movements of her fingers.
Teleporting Typewriter 