Tag Archives: book

#GloPoWriMo 2017 23 – leggère

Standard

libro
porta scorrevole
girella a pressione
senza bisogno di chiavi
entra

pagina
porta socchiusa
tappetino d’ingresso
ma non servono scarpe
vieni

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Turn the Page

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She watches them run through the pages
the images flowing beneath them,
hands touching the story.

She reaches out, a new
tenderness rushing through her skin.

She watches the ink singing
on the paper on their fingertips,
plots swirling under digits
lines spoken without sound
– she stops.

She plots, weaving into the
chapter this reading
this flowing of paper trails
and cuts to new scenes.

She is a reader, and can flesh out
characters only perfectly flawed
on the page, turn them into
whatever she can imagine
until they adapt to another vision.

She knows the twist turning in the wound
she sees the knot in the thread
the heart of the matter
and lets it beat.

She knows a book can end
as inevitable frames close the scene
lines are drawn and quartered
covers tucked in for an early sundown.

She knows a book can hold
lists and how-to tips and a universe of
suggestions and revisions and pages upon
pages upon pages of the kind
of words that are meant
to help and heal and soothe.

She knows all this but also knows
that none of it really helps
to turn a new leaf
start a chapter anew
and read further than the words
The End.

Except for her to pick up
another book,
or the same book perhaps
turn it round in her hands
and begin, again.

Sides

Standard

There is a square in the town
in the city where she lives
which isn’t.
It has three sides
of flagstone and brick
and then two more: an inside
and outside.
The inside feels, for all intents and purposes,
like flagstone and brick,
like sandstone and rock,
like concrete and mud.
The outside feels different.

There is a man on a bridge
in the city where she lives
who draws his life day after night
fighting the creatures on one side
and the other.
He knows the flagstone and brick
of the outside and inside
he knows the stars and sky.

There is a woman in a room
in a house in the city where she lives
who looks like a page from a book
but only for one day, one day in the year.
She knows the concrete and sweat
of the inside and outside
she knows the leather and print.

There is a book, there is a room
there is a bridge, there is a sky
They are the outside of the square
which is not a square in one
but multiple cities
of France of England of Morocco
and yet of brick and stone
and of stars and sky
of outside and of inside.