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Cursive Reclaimed


How odd that you've never seen

My hand set pen to paper,

Fits and starts clearly

Tracing crevasses skirted;

Patches of all-fours scrabbling;

Wild downswoops across ice so blue

It waits breathless to melt

And wing you skyward, transfiguring

The cloudspace between words.

So many tidy electron-edges here

That the universe encompassed by

An inkblot is remote as Andromeda

Or yesterday's tears.

- David W. Mitchell

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