The good thing is,
there is no writer's cramp.
No blots on white.
Crossing of T's dotting of I's
has gone the way of pens. Pencils.
Emily Dickinson jotting on envelopes.
Letters fly in clean Calibri lines.
Fast electric love.
Undress. Read this.
Always your very
own―
hieroglyph of curly ink.
Scrap of language. Obsolete.
I perfected reclusive cursive.
Doodle. Scratch in dirt with a stick.
Cultivate posies. Place thoughts elsewhere.
