Carbon

I turned the small crank until the wood split away

and the silver-grey dust coated the skin of my palm.

It’s a messy kind of medium, a soft shade of grey

that lacks any sense of a permanent calm.

I was trying to write it, to get the lines right,

but the side of my hand dragged across the first page.

Now there’s a smudge on my cuff, a dull, metallic light

that looks like the shadow of a slow-burning rage.

It smears when you touch it, it spreads like a secret

that you didn't quite mean for the paper to hold.

Every mark is a debt, and I’m starting to keep it

in the dark of the lead and the way it’s controlled.