Ghosts

I stumbled upon a book of poetry in the library,
words cautiously hedged away in some anonymous corner
until the torchlight of chance or intuition moved my idle fingers to it
It fell open on a page, the shape of the unknown poem stenciled onto it,
a mass of language composed by an unimportant human
whose whole existence was merely a book on a shelf amidst other books on a shelf
I wandered, unconsciously, my mind on the books uncomfortable under my arm
the edges of my thought on the clamouring jungle of other books waiting impatiently in line,
until a word or a string drew me in
The book unforgivingly heavy and unforgettably familiar in my hand,
the poem fully on my mind
and the being that constructed it in another time
resurrected,
standing for a quiet, understanding moment with me
looking down benevolently at a book of poetry
in a library.


Oct 19 2008