It is easy to identify which underlines are mine.
Usually they are serpentine, with three or four humps
in hushed mechanical pencil. I'm sure that I could tell,
no telling how, my own store-bought Bic from another.
In the wake of erasure, when rubber debris
speckles the page and wedges itself in the spine's cleft,
there are still slight signs of the familiar lines,
still stray fragments of my handwriting--
the shell of a lower-case "e," an "A"'s left leg--
too muted for anybody else to notice,
but impossible for me to ignore.