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.
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