When the book opens, the street shuts up.
The story pours from all sides; it drops
its ponderings along shorn lawns. It splits
ways with the true day. Fiction freights
the air; the walker strays. When the book
opens, the street shuts up. The mind dowses,
drinking at the page. Eyes trip and linger
on the doubling curve. The walk meanders
and the walk moves straight. Leafing
fills the air with a whirr of birds. Pages
layer, and pages turn. The mind lolls
down the rungs of words. When
the book opens, the street shuts up.
There is no fiction. There was no world.
Sunday, March 06, 2011
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2 comments:
I knew I wanted to meet my new neighbor in Chicago when I saw her reading while walking from the el stop to home.
I have always been jealous of people who can do this. As a writer I’m always too interesting in what I might be missing – everything’s fodder – and so trying to read outside is just a no-no. Enjoyed this poem. Especially the repetition. Good last line too.
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