The Afterlives of the Anarchists
Those staples in their foursquare silver strips Stacked upwards like some brutalist Manhattan office block Were teased apart by fingertips And, jammed down in the stapler at half-cock, Sent shockwaves up my wrist Then pushed back in They pierced the skin, Refusing to align With folded A4’s creased and crooked spine. Another bead of blood.