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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