The notebook splayed on our coffee table
is plastered with a scrawl
I can’t recall
ever scrawling.
But I know it must be my writing,
haphazard and slashed,
where my thoughts
rushed past the pen.
Lines careen in wandering italics-
while dashes run rampant-
It’s far from the polished text I’ll share
through a square of light and static.
How much do we lose through
this digital translation?
How could anyone glean
the desperate elation
a writer felt when the font
drones on so uniform
and precisely dealt?
Think of notebooks
throughout the ages-
poems, plays, novels splayed,
scrawl displayed like art.
How much more would we feel
if we absorbed their real
loops of soul
and heart?
pm poetry 