Cobalt splatters, semi-permanent stains,
slowly seep into the ridge of my cuticle
and underneath
my wide, jagged nail
my faintly lined knuckle,
hypnotizing me.
My defective pen lives on
in a Rorschach image-- to be studied,
deciphered
and
interpreted like the pattern
of tea leaves left in a flowered cup, then
picked at and rub…
