The Paper Country
“I used to think all writers came from the same country.”
– Kurt Vonnegut
In the paper country, letters of the alphabet
writhe on the sheets, flutter
from house to house. The natives
have gardens of pens, pencils,
typewriters on the vine, erasers are
snub-nosed roots like onions.
No one speaks here; there are only
the scratches and clicks and whirs
of the neighbors arguing, lovers’ valentines,
the rendering of voices in a dream.