I can’t type the letter I want to.
My words are whetted
by a savagery that can slice
open the screen except
my keyboard is broken.
A vital key keeps sticking
as if the letter is
lodged in my abdomen
preventing my hara-kiri.
I’ve tried and failed
to find a way,
inventive and conniving
of what I want to say,
things like—
remember the time
we stole oranges
off the market stall
on Moore street,
or took a traffic cone
for a late night walk, or
giggled in relish when
the man lost his shorts
to the sea—
so I bought a new computer
but could only manage
fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.