by Barry Vitcov.
A contortionist writing an extemporaneous poem
Shaping herself into words
One letter at a time
Alone
Giving more to the word
Than what was intended
With flourishes of twists and turns
Not unlike a white-faced mime
A body morphed into letters
Lose their humankind
Unable to distinguish fonts, bold and sublime
Some letters are easily flexed
Others painful G’s and B’s
Twisting a poem leaves no impression
Like the scent of roses
The wisp of fog
The rhythm of seas
Flashy serifs
Meant to embellish
The bland shape of calligraphy
A contortionist writing an extemporaneous poem
Erasing itself as each letter is formed
Undoing each shape as the next one is born
A poem leaves no impression
Only its form