When a man packs a lamp in newspaper, words rub off on his hands.
People build factories to build lamps.
They cut mountains open for a handful of gems.
Harvested for a misshapen pearl, an oyster’s whole life. Tonight,
a man sits at a desk and looks at his hands. Off the gems,
lamplight would glint. The pearl would be set in a ring no one buys.
You cannot reach me, he would write, if he were writing. You will not reach me.