True friend of a tactile type of writer
A piano for poets,
Plinking inky scrolls of subtext
On a silent, scarred ribbon.
Ghost words wrapped around an axle
Sing of meanings equal
To those impressed on onion skin,
(Where I foolishly thought
Each mistake, nearly fatal,
As it was before penicillin)
Thank God all the love and hate letters ran together
Returned to to their dusky glyph haven
On the opposite spool.