How (not) to turn a page
If you find that your padded fingers
Loiter within the half inch of page words
Don’t occupy–my darling, do not fret.
Perhaps a passage calls you back,
Having been skimmed over the first skip through,
Missed by the stone of your conscience-
Go back and read it, aloud if you must,
let the words be more than sounds.
If not for a sharp movement of
A fellow car-sitter,
Ignoring each other through pretense
Of barely tinted windows,
It may have been your favorite.
Or you no longer comprehend
The niggling note left in
Uber fine sharpie and peeping from
Behind dog ear-
“Start with cardboard cutouts, then reveal complexity”
And suddenly you do feel like a cardboard figure,
Sans complexity, and wonder
If your past self was psychic.
Though evidently that foresight is lost,
Flown away on Icarus wings,
Book pages sewn together with embroidery
Floss, layered feathers in crude
And you cannot force yourself
Beyond waxed paper,
Too light to lift
Heat of sun and breath magnified
By rearview mirrors–
But do not worry, child,
A volume splayed across center console at 175*
Will not split your spine.
Your story will not burst aflame
Should you not burst forth.
Not yet; there is time; there are covers to ignore.