I write this with a steel dip pen,
terribly old fashioned,
They wrote like this—remember when?—
painful and impassioned.
I don't. They wrote on close stool walls
and phone kiosks and cardboard.
On creaking slats of cattle stalls.
At Metro State. At Harvard.
They wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote
of lost wills and abortions.
At epic length. By train. By rote.
In whopping festal portions.
The pigs ate most. The silverfish
six-stepped across the rest.
Frau Bluebird, fluttery and swish,
and very red of breast,
has carried off a stave or two
in rapid, darting trips
and mumbled them into a glue
and long dependent strips.
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