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Showing posts from May, 2009

When Late The Book Reads You

It was when the twi edge started talking back that I began to first suspect.

That I was not a mental reject, just crazy. And not the normal crazy we're

all clocking in at. Lord god it's obvious our existence alone is fundament-

ally wack. But when my own knife glints at me from the shadow of the alley

way I'm treading, I need to know is it street or moon lamp light that it's

shedding. Easily I see best by starlight, revealer of the smallest details.

I thought I caught a whispered hush slip from my angled dagger's tip,

as I raced head low and long through the night wind. The haft held firm

in my right hand's grip as twilight across the tilted edge licked and winked.

A missive to stay taut and not dismiss immediateness.

We are at our most focused when someone makes a target of us.

We whose aim is relaxation. How easily I laughed at this, then.

When late the book read me, and not the other way around.

When it was I that the book had found. . .