I was writing by hand in forest green
with nothing but abstract thoughts
in between each new thrust of my
Old Lamy from the dot of an “i” to
to the end of the line; to see how long
I could write without knowing why.
My strokes were robust with which a
type written font could not compare.
For the ink was smeared with my
tears that dried in the warm desert air.
Who but God can read the nuances of
a wearied mind or an ink stained heart?