At
first she holds it correctly.
Who
knows why.
Her
forehead comes down
to
the pencil’s end
till
she’s pushing it around
with
her forebrain.
Easy
to let the end slip
into
one nostril
for
a more delicate manoeuvre.
Her
hand shifts to hold it
like
a digging stick,
a
wand, a baton,
it
can be anything
and
almost is
as
the sentence emerges
from
her tiny storm
its
words scorched across the paper
as
if finally scratched out with the tip
of
a lightning bolt.
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