Friday, November 24, 2017

The Book

the book has boundaries without boundaries;
in that sense the book resembles a house: you

are born & die there again & again, you
hoist it on your back, you shrink into it, you

listen to raindrops tapping the skylight when
morning is gray & the chestnut burrs drop at

random onto the driveway & the blue car—
in every book a blue tandem bike waits parked

on its kickstand in the basement for that one
spin through the park on a blue & yellow June

afternoon; in every book a French press
stands half full on the counter; the sun breaks

through clouds to shine on the paperbark maple
next to the backyard swing—you are the perfect

reader, sleeping until the alarm clock chimes,
walking downstairs as if turning the pages

Jack Hayes
© 2017

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