I can hear it like
a gental swerve
of cold wind
sweeping along the side of the house
I like the shadows
cast on the books leaning
by the nightstand.
There isn't a voice
from the authors;
just a scratching sound
of interests uninitiated-
Mine.
And to me, the novel stays closed
in my hands. Bookmarks lost
in the binding of life
not imitating art.
On a single piece of paper
the world can lie flat,
and from one corner to the other
someone could be listening,
and someone
could be storytelling,
Its all in invisible ink
written in the womb.
Literature is never reborn
but is consantly reinventing itself
in audiable sounds-
like the scratching
and medaling clamor
of a qiuet evening
pushing against
the side of a house.