Not Literature

May 13, 2013

What filigree your letters loop!

Such calculated confidence in each blooming capitol

Like someone wound some days around

your pages, and I’m treasuring these words

 

You’re creased in consequential places

dog-eared at each chapter, your length long-winded

in the right way, edited so we only see the words

within the chapters, numbered and bound

 

Still, each time I read you with more care

Your pages frailing, gilt-edged only gently

And the corners of the chapter heads

only serve to age you, and remind me that I’m not the first to read

 

Sometimes I scrutinize you, see the scrawl

beneath the printed weight, the lonely palimpsest

You’ve carried for these decades

The weightier of stories told-the first edition only I have seen

 

I read these deeper words, praying to see my name

inscribed beneath the ordered lines, some sentiment

Perhaps renamed so only you and I can tell

These stories are our stories, novel in the ways we are alive

 

But I am only tertiary, an afterthought to sell the plot

I’m gone within a scene and so I close you

With a dusty puff of pages opened rarely

and understood or read so much the less

 

You are not literature nor am I champion or swain.