Untitled
“Untitled”
7/11/03
JL
My fingers slide across the shelf–
And carress a book, prodded gently
from its quiet repose
And sit on my anxiety.
The binding broken with years of wisdom;
Though supple to the touch.
The gold that lines its every page
Falls not with scrape or scuff.
This book is rich. Many men
Have sought its hidden depths
To fail. Women read the page
And find it takes our steps
Beyone the threshold of our peace.
Something must unlock–
A glistening, glittering key
That stands in glaring night. The shock
Of tender glass not breaking,
Water hard as stone.
I hold the volume in my graspe
And listen to the drone
Of thoughts I can not piece.
I release the book.
It lands with muffled tones,
I want to dare to look . . .
But the spell leaves me here alone.
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This poem leaves much to be desired in the way of interpretation. The basic gist is there was this girl I knew who stands in the place of the book. She was smart, she was special, but she was unsearchable.
