Some letters are hard.
They loop too much.
Or worse, flourish.
They twist your wrist
Into positions
You’d rather not take.

Unnecessary, the need
To dot each i,
To cross each t,
Breaking the flow,
For custom’s sake.
The dots that matter most
Mark the ends. Periodically.
The crosses worth crossing
Run head to heart,
Shoulder to shoulder,
In prayers more sincere than
A grammarian’s remarks
Or her pencil’s red marks.

Some letters are not meant.
To be written or read.
To be sealed or opened.
To be blocked or cursive.
Some letters have no replies.
They end without ending.

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