Lost in the turning pages
of your face
weather lifts the corners
you spend mornings
smoothing one against the others
willing them to stay in place
two hands drawn down your spine
strong against your cover
your back
held close and closed
to reading eyes.
Lost in the turning motion
that feels like disaster feigning flight
and the broken weight
the sick lost gravity
that you can't know for yourself
whether risen or fallen
your open pages and their declarations
are useless
but for reading eyes.
aug 22, 2011
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