The left hand cramps around the typeholder,
thumb and opposing finger tight to hold the line
of letters in its place. The right hand gropes
across the tray of metal bars minutely cast,
that trove of symbols each in its own rectangle.
The mind breaks free of meaning to recall
if it's the t or r that's on the left-hand side.

The flow, the rhythms and the cadences
of poetry all disappear. Just now it's sounds
and parts of sounds, the way a letter may
repeat itself, the heft of consonants, the sliding
assonance of vowels, low to high. Words
will come later; this slow building moves us deep
below the meaning. Our lives take shape like this:
small details adding up, small piece by piece.