I have known the inexorable sadness of pencils,
the pensive nature of the quill. The quiet pink
will of the eraser, longing for things unsaid; the
pull of paintbrush over parchment skin. We write
reams and plant dreams in ivory snow, clack black
and hope our keys will open a vein. We shout in
sidewalk chalk. We spill in strains of salt. We etch our
names in quiet stones, graphite fight ourselves home.