Book

If I could read a face like a book
I would be able to see that your book does not twitch,
not a stitch.

The cover that won’t open,
the pages loathe to turn.

Leather face,
eyes bright and then dull,
closely protected,
strap twisted over silver button,
smell of familiarity,
carved binding so dear, run beneath my fingers,
let to drift, delicious across the surface.

Sometimes, I sense subtle rustlings,
as if passages run like horses into fields for water,
longing to be read.

Sometimes, your book jerks back, swift,
when I say something unexpected
but then it is still again, complete and tacit,
like a quick leap of a squirrel from branch to branch behind your shoulder.

Books like this, they make me hungry,
they make me want to run under trees, moss underfoot,
- morning light whispers,
Folly! There are no players!

But I have met the players.

Leather face,
eyes bright and then dull,
closely protected,
strap twisted over silver button,
smell of familiarity,
carved binding so dear, run beneath my fingers,
termites scuttle from the back.

A good book is hard to find.

back