To a Leaking Pen

You habitually
ooze, as though
you want to write
more quickly
than my hand
can move.

I’ll leave it
to you, then,
and try to
write as quickly
as I can.

I see.

You only want to
flow without the
words to slow you.

I envy you.
While forming
these contorted
lines, I scrape off
any extra ink,

to the margins
a language far
more eloquent.