[FrontPage Save Results Component]




Reading on the 5.30 express


This most private act

where worlds are palpably there

Not in bindings or columns

But dwelling between lines

In some spot known only to myself.


I am lost in other people’s minds

Deaf and dumb to the clacking,

Or the announcement of the next stop,

Things happen because I turn the pages.


A book is a badge, a sign of alliance.

She is reading Camus.

I want to call out to her, to wave a hand

And signal that I too understand,

That books are an inventory of my life,

That the scribble, scraps or coffee stain on the covers

Are bookmarks of faraway summers or dusty silent shelves,

That each copy of a book is singular

yet now part of your hands and your eyes.



Back  - Index