Fixing a Poem
For the last three days
I've been turning
a screww ina hollow,
lip-less hole.
It is no further in now
than when I started, and
it holds no promise of
tightening soon.
The manual has its lettered
body poiting to what
I know is this numbered hole.
So I'll just keep turning.
Better to be dilligent than lazy, I guess.
Who knows what wild world I'd create.
If I shook these words like bones.
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