These letters dance, spun too fast,
hopping spaces, changing places,
coming apart, re-assembling
in dyslexic dosido.
Their glee-filled, false steps kick aside
punctuation's too-stern stops,
undoing its stressful beats,
with a quick slip, dip and elide.
They make meaning a mean thing,
dressed loose in flimsy flowered shift,
and force my eyes to linger long,
caressing its rounded shape.
— Francis Scudellari