Let’s say I was painting a page with words/ They must come from somewhere/ I see them flash to the screen by magic

For the brain may signal to the fingers/ To move on the keyboard/ But the many-lobed organ holds no words

The heart may relish the verse that appears/ But it can be cold, too/ And doesn’t connect to the ten fingers

It must be therefore that the hands’ digits/ Themselves create the poem/ One haphazard letter, then another