Flow of Form

It injured me to see her read
A poem I had texted her.
Her narrow screen and largish font
Were wrapping down my metered lines,
Distorting chiseled, sculpted form.

I ran a finger on her screen,
“It’s meant to be a single line
A single movement, left to right,
Of eyes, of mind, of breathing voice.”
I pinched to show her what I meant.

She ran a finger down my face,
“It’s meant to flow into my heart.
So, let it flow the way I want.
I like it when it wraps me in.”
She pinched my chiseled, sculpted nose.

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