Szk—The scrivener clunks into first gear,
fishing line threaded with beads
cyan yellow magenta
draped around the mid thigh.
Staccato rings through the ripples
between the floor mat’s ridges.
This is every desk jockey’s nightmare:
a sentience in the spray. Never mind
all the fractals, all the sunken geometries.
No chaos so much as cloud deformation,
or quark confinement, or those rinds at