and I smashed it with the fourth finger
of my writing hand. Robert Frost wrote a poem about
of my writing hand. Robert Frost wrote a poem about
a similar bug. My mite left a red
streak
on the page, just to the right of the word the.
The mite was liquified into dye.
on the page, just to the right of the word the.
The mite was liquified into dye.
There wasn’t much to the mite
besides
fluid in the first place, kind of like
the ink in my pen, blah.
fluid in the first place, kind of like
the ink in my pen, blah.
So, of course, the mite
is now my writing, with all the apropos
delicious dire concomitant trimmings—
is now my writing, with all the apropos
delicious dire concomitant trimmings—
the streak of scarlet at the
end
of Carmen—white sheet raised
to receive the flung blood.
of Carmen—white sheet raised
to receive the flung blood.
Frost had something sagacious to
say
about the least display of intelligence on a page.
But I can’t stop thinking of that Spanish girl.
about the least display of intelligence on a page.
But I can’t stop thinking of that Spanish girl.
