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She plays compelling script like historic music.
Her hand in writing is fluidly spinning off ferns
and vocals with extra decorations. She pauses
and the script flowers at the end of sentences,
phrases end trailingly in vines, a shower
of bathing birds there in the margins, an ocean,
a graphic lesson on arabesques ending paper thin,
edges embellished with coquinas, anemones, physalia,
mosses in brushwork hitherto unknown, a flourishing
of satisfying phyla aching to be discovered.