I would fill the journals
you've left to me as gifts,
perhaps the slim one
bookmarked by a knife
which cleaves to or through
the signatures depending
on the weight of bound material
and hilt as balanced over a door
I leave ajar. But.
As the knife
turns the door in,
sometimes the air resists,
the book falls
face open to the floor,
the doorknob severed.
A trap for game; though I am
a solitary animal I can hear
the warning of the words
I will not write:
All hinges on me. Some alarm.
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