Talisman and tool,
through which I whisper as my knuckles
sweep in reaches to the right,
in our tango of hesitations
and glissandos,
over this white vellum floor
pressed from trees,
or nestled here in the pocket of my shirt,
nudging my often stupefied heart
from your resevoir of dreams,
when the weather changes
or first light silvers the night-chilled leaves
after your lonely vigil
on my bedside table.
I celebrate the subtle heft of your cap
with its bright arrow clip,
which balances your black acrylic barrel
in my fingers,
your atmospheric hydraulics,
your soft rubber sac,
and finally the articulate
flex of your split gold tongue,
through which, with luck,
a little black ink flows
for more than checks and regrets.
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