Sonnet: A Little Jerking Hand

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A little jerking hand over numbers slowly
emerging into the wan light, a skeleton
climbing a scaffold is a clock
that knows the answers you hold.
You! Flushed and warm!
The immense weapon of your hair!
I’m getting bored with it,
I tell the typewriter.
Each pillow is thick with your mercy
and all around the sound
of locks unlocking, clocks
tocking in the bright frocked morning.
You either go through this door or you won’t.
The literate are ill-prepared for this.