Good books stay with us like good friends
pages like voices, so oft repeated phrases
stories like memories and lovers
noted and not yet come
words that speak as only
between us and bent spine
in moments reflected
upon the history of a body
a life whose story would go untold
save for dogeared edges
and errant marks
that blot facade and good face
betrays more than just prose
that voice, a living novel
reveals to us
more as we go
persists in hidden corners
of mind and troubled mouth
couches and coffee tables
dusty shelves and old bus stops
as eddies in a stream
or deep undertow at sea
rescues us from
broken, shallow homes
buried deep within a tale
weaves and cuts into our
passions, into stories we thought
our own
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