There’s this vessel I feel

the presence of all the time. My sister-

in-law sprays a semi-precious wash

of silver beneath her tongue

which is one way to manage. For my own

part I envy the wooden pencils

shot through with graphite, deveining

themselves to the end of every line.

But for the stenographers

everyone do your own typing

seemed a sensible and leveling measure.

They still have their secret alphabet

and their flip-top pads so suited

to it. They took dictation

the way young Mother Theresa

heard God talking plain as a neighbor

yelling through the screen door

that the dog has got out of the yard again

but after starting that new order

and dressing all the sisters in white

cotton ribbed in periwinkle she didn’t hear Him

ever again. It’s not that Wisconsin

is newly rich in silica, which is another

word for quartz, which is another

word for sand, but suddenly industry

can’t get enough of its impressive

compressible strength and tiny

roundedness, which is another word
 
for I am found pleasing again. I will pour

most of the glasses of water I will ever

drink. I don’t mean loneliness. I could

impersonate your heart by tapping

on this wiped Formica lub dub

until you consent to tomorrow’s

urgent appointment but I hope

it doesn’t come to that. I think

of my prototype — the prototype

of me — gangling on

a ledge: the wire limbs

taped to the short cage

of torso were engineered for maximum

slouching, but, too, you could drop her

from the high roof

as much as you want. That egg

would never crack.