you, with your quick and ancient eyes, returned, looked for the one thing. there was no one thing. a finger outstretched from a small hand, tentative like a rabbit, presses on the spine of each book. as if one could read by touch, find the right words, the right tense. everything packed with unread meaning. there is no time for that now.
stood on a chair and nearly fell looking for the phenomenon of life.a near fall. and late humanity is hard to find nowadays.the sagging white shelves...the books tilt towards me like a ship."bring all the mysticism books." that's left a gaping whole. via negavtiva.
scraps of paper, stored away with great care and tenderness, journal articles-their essence underlined by faint pencil marks, smudges of lead- folded neatly. old copies of the new york review of books stacked, face down, near the slanting window. the right amount of angling morning-light.your silver-grey coat waiting in the cool dark garage, waiting to find its trueness.
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...you, with your quick and ancient eyes, returned, looked for the one thing. there was no one thing. a finger outstretched from a small hand, tentative like a rabbit, presses on the spine of each book. as if one could read by touch, find the right words, the right tense. everything packed with unread meaning. there is no time for that now.
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