There is clarity in the three-hole punch,
the way it is made to receive the paper,
always the same every time.
How it punches the holes always
equidistant from each other. It never worries
it’s not doing its job good enough. Never
worries it isn’t worthy of the pages it meets.
There is clarity in the way it flexes beneath
the hand, how it does the one thing it was made
to do. And you, with your hand on the black
length of it, you with your thousands of choices
inside every moment, what is it that needs
your precision? Maybe you’re making it
too hard. Maybe it’s your turn to do
the one thing you were made to do.