Awake

Your fingers coiled on the arms twisted rest;
a rest like you. 
Flitting lids seeing snippets spun
threads of incursive cursive,
embroidering the walls
with big thought written small  
in scarish scrawl. 

Then your eyes shut snapped,
and fingers lifted: a creaky release.

Still blind, hands scoured the surface,
carving rabid contours, eventually
enclosing the machine,
though not even you doubted the labour.
You raised it to your tongue.

The wrist again awoke, as did the florid eyes,
Spinning, spinning, 
away.  

Author's Note

What do you think I am talking about in this poem?