My fingertips ripple in stumbling rhythm
Across the uneven landscape
Of books on a shelf
Come across one
Its faded spine
Golden in the evening sun
As dust motes glitter, suspended,
Imperceptibly drifting
Mumbling voices
Fragments of dreams
The subterranean murmur of the sea
You lent me this years ago
I’m still half way through
Probably not even half
The creases cross barely a third
Of the spine
It lives here, jammed tight
Among other books in similar states
Borrowed from friends
Except ‘borrowed’ suggests the possibility
Of return
Inside each book
Are corners of pages
Turned, for years now, to hold places
I never went back to
If I tried to unfold them, they’d
Crack and they’d
Break
It’s been too long, now
Those creases are part of the page
Patterns of sand dance in the wind
Waves build
Huge, surround sound rumbling
Ominous as they approach
Then break and fizzle and politely
Wash across the sand
The sun slopes across the room
Shadows pool among the spines of the books
Fill the depths between
Rising, slowly, to swallow them up
Deep.
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