the pen is unmoving, turquoise and pointed,
an arrow unflown with a clip to connect.
the point is right at me, accusing, unfaithful,
brassy and linked to a sauce deep within.
the far end’s a button, a little snow pillar
or a cigarette butt-end that longs to be licked.
the colour is ocean, a dazzle, a dayglo,
so bright that a seagull or finger attacks.
when I get closer, inside is a capsule,
chilly as cuttlefish, sugar or salt.
When I take hold,
the pen is a river, silently swerving
divisions of potency, power full stop.