stare at the page, the page on the table, the page at the desk, the page upstairs in the mills building kitchen, the page on the clipboard in the iowa field, the page that's not a page but a fourth of a page quarter-chopped. here is the reflection of my page in a window, here is the page propped stately on my blue-jeaned nook of a leg on the trembling blue and red stripped train. the hand pauses, waiting for the trembling to stop. the hand holds, waiting for a new sort of tremble to begin. my reflection in the train window after dark looks old and disheveled, maybe unstable, maybe someone who drives home talking to herself. the page, it wants answers. the page, it sits staring. answer me, page. answer.