I am in love in Paperchase,
stuck in front of the card rack flushed for choice.
I stick my white neck up into the pencil section
and try to teach my cheek to remember
the smell of the point.
I pack lust into a lever arch file,
finger tab trust as something
to maybe sketch out later.
The mole skins by the till
have neat tongues
to mark the precise location
of my pulse
as I reach for the hitech 0.7 rollerball
and slam knock capfulls of chortezol.
