You’re thinking about lead—
you pour it, molten, to take the shape of a mold;
it cools into something you press against paper
to leave a black inked mark.

You’re thinking about slugs—
the pieces of type you use to cast and set by hand,
each letter backwards, 
a mirrored image waiting to be read.

You’re thinking about weight— 
lead’s gravity, pulling down your hand.

You’re thinking about forgiveness—
soft and malleable, it dents and scratches. 
A ding here, a chunk lost there.