Each person is a chapter of something.
How many books are around the table?
Six faces, of which one is a tome,
another the paragraph of a scattered story.
Two complete,
one history being added to.
Another is a blank page
ready to be written.
I hope death does not precede
its first word or phrase.
And then myself.
Shelves of books I’ve begun.
A windowsill where one is collecting life.
Then in drawers,
poems by the hundreds,
bales of paper with words
pressed on each other,
like a choir constantly embracing.
Who would read all these journals,
poems, novels, memoranda,
telling how the child was lost,
how love fared its one night stand.
Why I lied, stole, prayed,
and gave away my soul,
spent words over the counter
for less than they were worth.
And refused the literacy of love,
understanding,
composing a letter,
and leaving something for another,
to caution,
instruct,
praise.
Or simply say, you are beautiful,
worthwhile,
happiness to know,
a snowflake melting in my hand,
kissed for its thousand sighs
falling to the earth,
to be finally seen and read.