You used to have such beautiful
handwriting, my mother tells me,
and sighs, as if this one gift,
had I kept it, would have
spared me all the grief and trouble
I now spend my time writing about,
filling notebook after notebook
in a hurried, indecipherable hand.
I myself can’t make out poems
I wrote five years ago and left
untyped. They’ve enclosed themselves
in the confusion they came from.
Phrases cohere, briefly, then
disappear in a blue scrawl like
birdtracks across a muddy field,
made by homing pigeons,
perhaps, earthbound and lost,
their urgent messages undelivered.
INCOMMUNICADO
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