What The Books Tell Me
The profound feeling-
giddy with the triumph of its reach,
that everything and nothing is wrong.
I dream I'm waking
in my American bed
from another time. But
the times keep interlacing
like lovers' restless fingers.
Like intercrossing networks
on a computer screen.
And she's always there.
And he's always there.
And waking reality has no backdrop
for this storyline.
But sometimes in the mornings'
thoughtless peace, I flip through pages
of a book until my fingers trace
the vibrations of myself. Rarely
does it take very long.
There's a man who found solace
in a glee that had no place.
And a woman who expected
only rubbish so she kept getting
more of something slightly better.
And another man told another woman
he ached for her, so she followed home.
And one more who in thoughtful respect,
laughed in the face of death just so
she could see what it was like. Why not?
She said to anyone who'd listen.
This all comes wrapped in various forms
of shadow interlaced by light.
That's what the books tell me.
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