Out on the factory floor
workers in gray smocks
operate the presses
and down bares the large blade
through piles of newspapers
sad and determined.

Discarded cuttings
fall empty there.

One dark corner
is stacked with huge cogs

In another room
the typists finger
drops like a piston
and the sunlight
all wrinkled
scribbles sparkling white lines
in a water decanter.

Climb up the stairs
hold on to the banisters
cutting light into strips
that float on the carpet

Cling and sway
my lady
The soft varnished wood
under your smooth hand
hesitant

Pick up the scissors
and press them into your neck child,
for the world is too thin

Sort through
the myriad lamps
the leather shoes
the ashen smell of fresh print
the gigantic reels
of paper

Arrange neatly
your quill and ink bottle

Draw letters
with a finger
on the dusty table top

Pick up the scissors
and cut your long hair sister
and cut off the sleeves of your dress

Discarded cuttings
under the arched doorway
where you fought
disheveled
automated
oiled