a poem by Jill Bronfman

All my real life isin books

Books where I turnthe pages

Not with my hands

Books where I readthe words

Not with my eyes

I print them usingthe moveable type

Embedded in oursynapses

No book everconcludes properly

The words just stopbeing visible

Mid-way through thelast page

Gulping their lastbreaths of air

There are characterswhose words cease

To appear on thepage

But still live

There are housesbuilt inside the book

That still stand

There are villagescontaining paths

And forests oflinked live trees

And then

There is the beautyof the half-page blank

I round the hardedge of the binding

Tuck the carcassunder my arm

And begin the resurrection

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