Alone. And alone. The pencil knows
its lots. Of loss it’s a lot.

The placemat never gambles, though.
All bets covered, all crumbs off.

The pencil points in impression’s direction,
pissed off to be thought encompassing.

A tea bag wrapper turns its back, points its lap
elsewhere. Miss Hap. A pencil can’t writ(h)e

for the lead inside. Its head is made
to rub its own ideas away. Against its word

to disappear. And disappear: give is to take
as dream is to wake—same message as ever:

Send Word.