All things handwritten pass through pens.
Created under rolling points spilled clean paths and shapes and lines.
But nothing is ever done for a pen.
If a thought is not tugging a line in the mind it sits still,
straight, truer than any text staining the other side,
or any picture drawn by the tool’s plastic rigidity and firm pressing spine,
gentle rubber-dotted grip, click cap and carbon ink heart.
Writing with one is no different than a chimpanzee holding a twig,
fishing methodically for termites.
Only the termites are different.