Carbon Copy

My father prayed in 10-point type,
spun ribbons off their spindles,
hammered sparks in grey twilight,
knocked letters from their hinges.

Every word he did between
slippery purple carbon sheets
so not just he or I would see,
but all would know his splendid things.

They closed the coffin at his wake,
interred him in a padded box
where now reside but replicas of
his great, and still, ink-stained fingers.



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