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kalla graphia.

for A.

Ravens and writing desks
have nothing in common

but the quill. I imagine it yours.
I imagine the feathers

of hope as ink-dipped as one tip
of the magpie’s, but both–

I imagine the line that draws
us all together, and leaves

nothing aside. I imagine the line:
all lines are imaginary,

even this one. But hope is not
an imagined thing; hope

unfolded this past year dark
and slowly through your pen,

as through others. I hope it opens
still, and bird by bird, until