The books lie everywhere.
Some open, some shut with marks within,
and some simply closed, as if human touch
were forgotten.
A mind is sensed. It could be if
all pages were read up to the point indicated
we could reconstruct something.
A personality would emerge,
one sitting atop a mountain, waiting
for the traveler to ask, or one
within a cloister, surrounded by structure
all looking the same.
We trust the most silent, impalpable voices.
- Vision (a poem)
- Is Being Serious Something You Work For, Or A Natural Product of Having Fun?
- Holding Attention: On Emily Dickinson’s “So the Eyes accost – and sunder…” (752)
- On Alice Shapiro’s “The Twittering Machine”
- Emily Dickinson, “Superfluous were the Sun” (999)
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Amen
True, dat.
Nice poetry! I like your style, it has a certain feel to it, a certain mystery.