Unwritten (for M. K.)

I am not a steel desk holding
clutter dull-nibbed pencils

no I am a typewriter
with broken keys waiting
to be fixed no ribbon no ink

to make my impression
on paper no way to make
the words that might

bend you to look
closely at the page,
at what you will find

blurred at the edges
misshapen through use
but spelled right: it will say

Allow me to tell you
you are sunlight in this room
how I starve to be

in another place with you
not here where I am
a machine unable to write

the words that might bend you
to look closely at the page

how I want you to strike my
broken keys to spell ‘touch’
‘love’ ‘embrace’ and ‘kiss’.

but you will only pass by
maybe running your soft finger
slowly over my middle row

from A to L spelling nothing
I want to read it is
sad (you said) this difference--
what? between my unstruck keys

my metallic sameness to the desk
and your lips kiss embrace love
I will never feel touch know

or have endless sad as
unwritten words are or seem.