on poetry collections from the library

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 ON POETRY COLLECTIONS FROM THE LIBRARY

As I open each offering

I can’t help but be stunned.

How are the pages still

so white? The spines so

unbroken? If this were mine,

not borrowed, how I would dog-

ear page after page, how I would crack

each binding until the heart of it

splayed open! I suspect this pristine

condition a symptom of want for wear, 

but then a flicker, something like hope

sparks inside me, and I join a communion

with the reverent.

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